The Last Ring-bearer - Kirill Yeskov [171]
"Anyway, to continue: I don't know who advised you to fly your mission in uniform, but our lawyers – may they burn in the Eternal Fire! – have suddenly decided that this makes you a prisoner of war, rather than a spy. According to your Middle Earth laws a prisoner of war is protected by the Convention: he can't be forced to break his oath and all that…" The Elf dug through papers on his desk, found the needed spot and put his finger on it with visible disapproval. "As I understand it, they want to trade you for someone, so sign here and go get some sleep."
Kumai opened his parched lips: "I'm illiterate."
"An illiterate driver of a mechanical dragon? Not bad… Print your finger, then."
"Like hell."
"Whatever, man: I'll just note that you refused to sign and be done with it. Nobody but your commanders needs these papers anyway, if indeed it does get to an exchange. That's it, you can go… I mean: take the detainee away! Actually, my apologies, sir – you're a prisoner of war now, rather than a detainee…"
When the leather-jackets led the engineer into the corridor, the clofoel of Tranquility bit out in his back: "You're real lucky, Troll. In a couple of hours I was going to deal with you personally… Why did you fly to Lórien, eh?"
He only believed in his victory when he saw lembas on a small table in his cell, and – most importantly – a pitcher of ice-cold water, its clay sides covered with a silvery web that turned into large drops under his fingers. The water had a slightly sweet tang to it, but he did not notice it – a man who had gone without water for several days is simply incapable of doing so.
Sleep came, sweet and light, as it always is after a victory. He smelled home – old wood, couch leather, Dad's pipe and something else without a name; Mama was quietly puttering in the kitchen, cooking his favorite black beans and surreptitiously wiping away tears; Sonya and Halik – their carefree pre-war selves – were eagerly asking him about his adventures; well, guys, that was really something, you'd never believe…
Smiling happily, he talked in his sleep.
He did not just talk – he answered direct questions posed by someone's comforting even voice.
…His superiors at Dol Guldur decided that he was dead: "Apparently he has miscalculated his altitude during the most recent flight, which was at night, and hit a tree. Attempts to locate the body and the remains of the glider near the castle have not proved fruitful yet." The next day, following his instructions, Grizzly sealed the engineer's papers, including the flight maps, and sent it all to Féanor headquarters in Minas Tirith without reading.
Lórien, Star Council
July 25, 3019 of the Third Age
Clofoel of Tranquility: As you can see, it is quite possible to do without torture and the brain-busting truth potion.
Lady Galadriel: You're a real master of your craft, clofoel of Tranquility. What did you find out?
Clofoel of Tranquility: The dragon driver's name is Kumai, he is an Engineer Second Class. As we suspected, he flew here from Dol Guldur. Judging by his tales, it had been turned into a real snake nest where escaped Mordorian scientists are creating unheard-of weapons under tutelage of their intelligence service. His real mission here was from the Order of the Nazgúl – to drop a sack with some magical item, whose nature is unknown to him, onto the 'sky' next to Nimrodel. I believe it is the presence of that item that the esteemed clofoel of Stars and her dancers have felt. My Guards have conducted a thorough search of the valley of the Nimrodel, but found nothing: someone had removed the sack. Therefore, o radiant Sovereigns – please understand me correctly – therefore, I insist that the esteemed clofoel of the World be removed from this investigation.
Lady Galadriel: Let us call a spade a spade, clofoel of Tranquility. Do you believe that the clofoel of the World had somehow treated with the Enemy and that the item dropped from the sky was intended for her?
Clofoel of Tranquility: I did not say that,