The Last Ring-bearer - Kirill Yeskov [126]
"Any problems?"
"None. We alerted a cover team the moment we got the danger signal – the Forget-me-not plus the tumbling coins. Over the second cocktail the bartender told him which post had the ladder, and it all went down flawlessly."
"All right, you're all dismissed for now. Algali, put something on and tell your story. You have my complete attention."
**
With one last glance at the back of the Junior Secretary receding down Lamp Street, the man who called himself Baron Tangorn (it was him, in fact) returned to the first floor of the house. Work there was in full swing: the gymnast and the jester, both alive and well, were busy cleaning up the room. The jester was already out of his bloodied clothes (the baron's sword had pierced a bladder filled with pig blood and hidden on his chest) and was now taking off the mithril mail, grimacing with pain. Seeing Tangorn, he turned to show him his side, which sported a large purple bruise:
"Look what you done, boss! Betcha you broke my rib!"
"The dungans you got cover pain and suffering. If you're angling for a bonus, forget it."
"Really, man – whyn't you just stab me, careful-like? Why lay it on for real? What if that mail shirt of yours broke?"
"Well, it didn't," the baron responded matter-of-factly. "By the way, hand it over."
He had painted the mail with black enamel, so that it looked exactly like ancient Mordorian armor – he had no desire to demonstrate mithril to his partners.
He turned to the gymnast, who was carefully wiping blood splatters off the armchair. "Inspector! Don't forget to put the censer back where it was."
"Listen, Baron," the other responded irritably, "don't teach me how to clean up a scene!" Then he recited a couple of well-known saws about an impudent son giving his father sex advice and about the main reason for not making love on the Three Stars Embankment being the passerby who would drive you nuts with their advice. Tangorn had to admit that the man had a point.
"Where did you get all this?" Tangorn fingered one of the ominous-looking pullers he fished randomly from the tin bowl.
"Just bought all his tools off a market dentist for three castamirs, plus added some handyman's tools. Add a little dried blood and it all looks very presentable, if you don't look too close."
"Very well, guys, thank you for your service." With those words he handed Vaddari and his henchman a bag of gold apiece. "Will ten minutes be enough for you to finish cleaning up?" The inspector thought about it, then nodded. "Excellent. Your ship," the baron turned to the jester, "sails with the dawn. In those lands fifty dungans is quite enough to set up a tavern or an inn and forever forget Umbar and its policemen. My advice is not to publish any memoirs of this night, though."
"What's 'publishing memoirs,' eh, boss?"
"That's when someone gets drunk and starts telling stories. Or gets too smart and sends a letter to police."
"Whatcha saying, boss? I never rat on my pardners!" The man was upset.
"Keep it up, then. Mind that Lame Vittano owes me a few and considers himself my brother, so if anything goes wrong, he'll find you even in the Far West, never mind Vendotenia."
"You dissing me, boss?"
"I'm not 'dissing,' I'm warning. Sometimes, you know, people want to get paid twice for the same job. All right, guys, farewell and hope we never meet again."
With those words the baron walked out, hesitating at the door for a few seconds: the job awaiting him on the second floor required more than just guts.
Chapter 47
The thing was that the house at 4 Lamp Street was indeed a Gondorian safe house, but its true owners – two Secret Guard sergeants – have taken no part in the above events, having spent all that time bound and gagged in the living room upstairs. The sergeants were captured in a lightning-fast operation devised by Vaddari and Tangorn and carried out with the help of a robber nicknamed Knuckles, who needed to change climate soon. The baron needed a third partner not only for the latter's skills,