The Last Ringbearer (38 page)

“Yakudze, do you think that the captain can keep working?”

“He’s totally demoralized right now; he whines and begs to be allowed to flee immediately, as per agreement.”

“Exactly!” In annoyance, the Director slapped the morning report from Carnero’s headquarters. “It’s getting harder and harder for Marandil to cover up the goings-on in Barangar Bay. His underlings aren’t blind …” Underlings aren’t blind – is that a hint at me and the Elves? Yakudze hastily banished the thought. “Add to that a string of spectacular failures and a pile of dead bodies, thanks to that swashbuckler from Ithilien. Soon our captain will be stripped of his officer’s cords and court-martialed. Long story short: find Tangorn immediately and isolate him at all costs! All costs, you hear? If you can do it without bloodshed – be my guest, but if not, then just liquidate him to hell and be done with it! … Now, about the Gondorian station. If needs be, can we simply block their communications with the continent, and extend that blockade throughout mid-July, when Sirocco is scheduled to begin?”

“I think so. We will cut off the land routes via Chevelgar while Makarioni will contact the Coast Guard and put them on high alert.”

“Good. Now: since Tangorn is in town after all, then Mongoose should be, too. Got any news on that front?”

“Kind of … We have a very faint lead. For the past few days my people have been watching Tangorn’s girlfriend Alviss and have discovered a strange detail, seemingly a trifle …”

Even the most banal measures, like placing the guards on high alert, can sometimes yield unexpected results. While looking through the daily news summary on the morning of the 20
^th
Yakudze came across a Coast Guard report: on the night of the 19
^th
they have intercepted the
Flying Fish
, the felucca of a well-known smuggler Uncle Sarrakesh, in an attempt to enter Kharmian Bay. There were two crewmen on board beside the skipper. The felucca’s hold was absolutely empty, giving the authorities no excuse to impound the vessel; Uncle Sarrakesh will have to be let go by the evening. The report mentioned, however, that the
Flying Fish
attempted to evade the coast guard galley by hugging the reef-strewn shore of the Peninsula; it is possible, the guards concluded, that there may have been a passenger on the felucca that had escaped by swimming ashore in the dark.

It is hard to say what attracted the DSD Vice-Director’s attention to this banal harbor story; perhaps some faint premonition. As far as he remembered, Uncle Sarrakesh was connected to Lame Vittano’s
zamorro
and specialized in smuggling proscribed steel weaponry to Harad in exchange for cola nuts whose import was the Republic’s monopoly. Cola was very expensive stuff, so the inbound shipments of contraband were typically small (no more than ten grain sacks) and it was a task of two or three minutes to heave them overboard in case of trouble, so the emptiness of the
Flying Fish
’s hold did not surprise the Vice-Director. The strange thing was that the guardsmen’s specially trained dog had not detected any cola smell on board, which prompted him to give his full attention to the idea that the felucca’s only cargo had been an unknown passenger. At any other time this would have been a trifle, but not now, when the Department was carefully cutting off all of the 12 Shore Street’s possible communication channels and looking for Gondorian illegals from Mongoose’s team. Yakudze decided that any leniency was inappropriate at this crucial juncture and ordered an enhanced interrogation of the captured smugglers. A couple of hours later one of Sarrakesh’s ‘nephews’ broke and described their escaped passenger; Yakudze had no trouble recognizing Baron Tangorn from the description.

Upon such recognition he cursed, shortly but colorfully, like a sailor, as he realized that he could not get to Tangorn any time soon. Sarrakesh was from the Peninsula; undoubtedly he sent Tangorn to his relatives in one of the mountain villages. Even if Yakudze found out exactly which one (which would be very tough), it would not do him any good – the mountain men never surrender a fugitive to the police. Their law of hospitality was sacred and inviolate, and there could be no negotiation on that point; to arrest Tangorn by force he would need not a couple of gendarmes, but a minor army operation, which no one would authorize. Send
nin’yokve
assassins to the mountains? That would work as an extreme measure, but … All right, let’s risk a little wait until the baron tries to get back to the Islands – he did try to get straight into Kharmian Bay last night despite obvious danger. For a while he has no contact with Vittano’s smugglers, so the sea route is closed to him, whereas to seal off the Long Dam is easy as pie.

“Find me everything we have on Uncle Sarrakesh’s relatives and friends,” the Vice-Director ordered his assistant. “I doubt he has a separate dossier, so you’ll have to comb all the materials on Lame Vittano’s
zamorro
. Next: who’s in charge of agents among the Peninsula’s mountain men – Ras-shua, is it?”

CHAPTER 48

Umbar Peninsula, near Iguatalpa Village

June 24, 3019

T 
he chestnut tree in whose shade they camped was at least two hundred years old. All by themselves, its roots were holding together a huge chunk of the slope above the path leading from Iguatalpa to the pass, and doing it well: the spring rains, unusually heavy this year, had not left any landslides or fresh holes here. From time to time a breeze rustled the luxurious crown of leaves, and then sunspots would drop silently through it down on the yellowish-cream fallen foliage that had accumulated at the foot of the trunk between the mighty roots. Tangorn stretched pleasurably on this wonderful bed (after all, the local paths were not kind on his wounded leg), leaned back on his left elbow and immediately felt some discomfort under it. A bump? A stone? For a couple of seconds the baron lazily considered his dilemma: should he disturb this thick elastic carpet in search of the problem or just move himself a bit to the right? He looked around, sighed, and moved – he did not feel like disturbing anything here, even such a trifle.

The view he saw was amazingly serene. From here, even the Uruapan waterfall (three hundred feet of materialized fury of the river gods trapped by their mountain brethren) looked simply like a cord of silver running down the dark green cloth of the wooded slope. A little to the right, forming the centerpiece of the composition, the towers of the Uatapao monastery rose above the misty chasm – an antique candelabrum of dark copper all covered in the noble patina of ivy. Interesting architecture, Tangorn thought, everything I’ve seen in Khand looked totally different. Nor is that surprising: the local version of Hakimian faith differs substantially from Khandian orthodoxy. Honestly, though, the mountain men have remained pagans; their conversion to Hakima two centuries ago – this most strict and fanatical of world religions – was only another way to distinguish themselves from the mushily tolerant Islanders, all those nothings who have turned their lives into a constant buy-sell litany and who will always prefer profit to honor and blood money to vendetta … Here the baron’s leisurely musings were rudely interrupted: his companion, who had already emptied his knapsack and spread the still-warm morning
hachipuri
flatbreads and wineskin right on it, like on a tablecloth, suddenly put down his dagger (which he had been using to slice the
basturma
, thin slices of meat hard-dried to the consistency of red stained glass), raised his head, staring at the turn in the path, and pulled his crossbow closer in one habitual movement.

This time the alarm was false, and two minutes later the newcomer was sitting cross-legged by their spread backpack and saying a toast, long and convoluted like a mountain path switch-backing toward a distant summit. He was introduced to Tangorn tersely as “a relative from Irapuato, across the valley” (the baron just shrugged: everyone in these mountains is related somehow). Then the mountain men launched into a genteel discussion of the coming maize harvest and the steel-hardening methods practiced by Iguatalpo and Irapuato blacksmiths; the baron, whose participation in the conversation was anyway limited to a polite smile, began giving its due to the local wine. It is unbelievably tart and thick, its amber depths harboring shimmering pink sparks exactly the color of the first sun rays on a wall of yellowish limestone still wet with dew.

Tangorn used not to understand the charm of this beverage, which is not surprising because it can not stand transportation, whether bottled or barreled, so everything sold down below is no more than an imitation. You can drink the local wine only in the first hours after it has been drawn from the
pifos
where it had fermented with a small jar on a bamboo handle – after that, it is only good for slaking one’s thirst. During their forced idleness on board the
Flying Fish
Sarrakesh had gladly educated the baron on the intricacies of mountain winemaking: how the grapes are crushed in a wooden screw together with the vine (hence the unusual tartness) and the juice poured through troughs into the
pifoses
buried throughout the gardens, how the cork is opened for the first time – you have to carefully snag it from the side with a long hook, looking away lest the escaping thick and unruly wine spirit (the
genie
) drive you crazy …

Actually, most of the old smuggler’s reminiscences of his rustic existence were not very warm. It was a very peculiar world, where men were always alert and never without weapons, where women, dressed head to toe in black, were silent shadows always gliding past you along the farthest wall; where the tiny windows in thick walls were nothing but crossbow firing holes and the chief product of the local economy was dead bodies produced by the senseless permanent vendettas; a world where time stood still and one’s every step was predestined for decades ahead. It was not surprising that the joyful adventurer Sarrakesh (whose name was very different back then) had always felt foreign there. Meanwhile, the sea that was open to everyone and treated everyone the same was right there … so now, when he steered his felucca across foamy storm waves with a steady hand, barking at the crew: “Move it, bar-r-r-rnacles! Keelhaul bait!” everyone could see a man in his element.

Which was exactly why the sea wolf allowed himself to categorically oppose Tangorn’s plan to return to the city by the twentieth: “Don’t even think about it! We’ll get nabbed for sure!”

“I must be in town tomorrow.”

“Listen, buddy, did you hire me as a gondolier for an evening sail around the Ring Canal? No, you needed a pro, right? Well, the pro says we can’t get through today, and that’s how it is.”

“I must get into town,” the baron repeated, “no matter what!”

“Sure you’ll get into town – straight into a jail cell. Two days ago the Coast Guard went on high alert, you understand, no? The entrance to the lagoon is shut tight, not even a dolphin can swim by undetected. They can’t keep this up for long; we gotta wait, at least until next week, when the moon starts to wane.”

Tangorn thought about it for some time.

“All right. If they catch us, what’s it to you? Six months in jail?”

“Who cares about jail? They’ll confiscate my boat.”

“What’s your
Flying Fish
worth?”

“No less than thirty dungans, that’s for sure.”

“Excellent. I’ll buy it for fifty. Deal?”

The smuggler gave up: “You’re a psycho.”

“Perhaps, but the coins I pay with weren’t minted in a madhouse.”

The venture turned out exactly as Sarrakesh had predicted. When a warning catapult shot from a pursuing galley splashed in a moonlit fountain of water less than fifty yards across their bow, the skipper squinted to estimate the distance to the surf boiling around the reefs to starboard (that night the
Flying Fish
, taking advantage of its paltry draught, was attempting to slip by the very shore of the Peninsula, through reef-studded shallows off-limits to warships), turned to the baron and ordered: “Overboard with you! It’s less than a cable to the shore, you won’t melt. Find my cousin Botashaneanu’s house in Iguatalpa village, he’ll hide you. Give him my fifty dungans. Cast off!” So what did I gain by jumping into it headfirst, Tangorn thought. Truly it is said: shorter ain’t the same as faster; either way I lost a week. Whatever, hindsight never fails … Suddenly a new word –
algvasils
– popped up in the table talk of the mountain men, so he started listening intently.

Actually, those were city gendarmes, rather than
algvasils
, commanded by their own officer rather than a local
alcalde
. Nine men and one officer showed up in Irapuato the day before yesterday. Supposedly they’re looking for the famous bandit Uanako, but in a weird way: sending no patrols, instead they’re going house to house asking whether anyone has seen any strangers. As if anyone would tell those island jackals anything, even if he did see someone … On the other hand, one can understand those guys: the bosses want them to catch bandits, so they’re making a decent show of it; they’re not dumb enough to actually climb mountains, risking a crossbow bolt any minute for tiny pay while their friends are safely milking caravans at the Long Dam …

When the guest has departed, Tangorn’s guide (whose name was Chekorello and whose relation to Sarrakesh was beyond the baron’s ken) remarked thoughtfully: “You know, it’s you they’re looking for.”

“Yep,” Tangorn nodded. “Are you by any chance figuring how to turn me in in Irapuato?”

“Are you crazy?! We shared bread!!” The mountain man cut himself short, having figured out Tangorn’s intention, but did not smile. “You know, the folks down below think we’re all dumb up here and don’t get jokes. Maybe so; the people here are intense and just might cut your throat for such a joke … Besides,” he suddenly grinned just like a grandfather promising grandkids a magic trick, “nobody’s gonna pay fifty dungans you owe my family for your head. Better I should get you over to the city, like we agreed, and earn that money honestly, true?”