The Last Ring-bearer - Kirill Yeskov [134]
"They'll be waiting for us at the Long Dam, which we can't bypass," he announced to Chekorello, who was going bug-eyed after half an hour of an unaccustomed mental effort. "Here's how we'll get past them…"
"You're mad!" was all the mountain man could say after listening to Tangorn's plan.
"I've been told that many times," replied the baron, "so if I'm a madman, I'm a very lucky one. Are you coming with me? I won't insist – it'll be easier for me to do it alone."
**
"It all checks out, milord. Men from 12 Shore Street did try to capture him both at the Seahorse Tavern and at Castamir Square. He escaped both times. Four dead at the Seahorse, three infected with leprosy at the Square; too expensive to cover a one-time diversion, to my taste. 4 Lamp Street is indeed a Gondorian Secret Guard safe house, and he did raid it: one of the sergeants keeping that house was grievously wounded in the chest, his physician confirmed Algali's account. The Secret Guard badge is genuine; that Aravan's handwriting matches the one he's even now using to write explanations at the police headquarters. Plus the entire Gondorian station is turning over stones looking for Algali. In other words, it doesn't seem to be a ruse."
"So why didn't he show up at the Green Mackerel on the twentieth?"
"Possibly he had detected our backup team next to the restaurant and quite reasonably decided that we were violating his terms. That's the best case; the worst is that Aragorn's people got to him. Let's hope for the best, milord, and wait for next Friday, the twentyseventh. We'll have to skip the backup team, lest the deal fall through again."
"True enough. But he must not leave the Green Mackerel under his own power…"
Chapter 49
Umbar, 12 Shore Street
June 25, 3019
Mongoose walked unhurriedly down the embassy's corridors.
Not crept along the wall like a fleet weightless shadow, but walked, with his every step echoing through the sleeping building, the wall lamps periodically illuminating his black parade uniform with silver officer's cords on the left shoulder. Actually, Marandil realized almost immediately that this was a trick of the weak light: the lieutenant was wearing civilian clothes, the silver on his shoulder and chest being spots of some kind of whitish mold… No, what mold – it's frost, real frost! Frost on clothing – how, from where? Just then a weak but clearly discernible breeze – like an icy breath from a crypt – touched the captain's face, and the flames in the lamps dipped together, as if confirming to dash all hope: no, this is not an illusion! The walls of the embassy, long an unassailable fortress, two layers of slavishly devoted guards, DSD's famed hunting skills – everything had failed…
He could physically feel the deathly cold emanating from the approaching figure; this cold froze Marandil's boots to the floor and turned the panicked flurry of his thoughts into gel. This is it. You knew all along that this was how it was going to end… After Aravan's testimony you knew when, now you know how, that's all… In the meantime, the lieutenant was turning into a real mongoose leisurely approaching a cobra – a flat triangular head with flattened ears, itself resembling a snake's head, ruby eye beads and blinding white needle teeth under raised whiskers. He, Marandil, was the cobra – an old tired cobra with broken venomous fangs. Any moment now those teeth would sink into his throat, the blood would spurt from the torn arteries, the delicate neck vertebra would crunch… He backed away, futilely trying to shield himself from the approaching nightmare with his hands, and suddenly sprawled flat on his back: his heel caught the upturned edge of a carpet runner.
The pain from a badly bumped elbow rescued the captain, snapping him back into reality. His terror somehow switched modes, turning from paralyzing to hysterical; Marandil jumped up and sped down the corridor so fast that the wall lamps turned into a blurred fiery line. Stairs… down