The Last Ring-bearer - Kirill Yeskov [99]
He stopped by a familiar dugout bar to drink some of his favorite Golden Muscat. Its sweetness and tartness balance each other so perfectly that the taste seems to disappear altogether and the wine turns into materialized aroma, seemingly simple and even somewhat crude, but in reality weaved from a multitude of shades – multiple meanings and hints. Let some of it linger on your tongue, and you will see the topaz berries warm with the afternoon sun, slightly sprinkled with limestone dust, and the blindingly white path through the vineyard, and then the enthralling Umbarian six-line verses – takatos – will begin creating themselves right out of the noon haze…
It's strange, really, he thought while climbing up the stairs back into the street (another check – still no tail), it's strange but he used to believe that fully appreciating the taste of this magic drink would lead him to a full understanding of the soul of the city where it was born. Umbar – the wonderful, damned, tender, fickle, mocking, depraved, ever avoiding real intimacy Umbar… A bitch of unbelievable beauty and charm who gave you a love potion to drink, precisely so she could then openly flirt with all and sundry in your full view, leaving you the choice of either killing her or accepting her as she was. He chose the latter, and now, back after a four-year absence, knew with certainty: baron Tangorn's Gondorian phase was nothing but a prolonged misunderstanding, for his real home is here…
He stopped by the parapet, leaned on the warm pinkish limestone, swept his gaze over the majestic view of both of Umbar's bays – Kharmian and Barangar – and suddenly realized: this was the very place where he met baron Grager on his first day in Umbar! The resident listened to Tangorn's introduction and said coldly: "I don't care for Faramir's recommendations! Young man, I won't give you any real work for at least six months. By then you must know the city better than the police, speak both local languages without an accent, and have acquaintances in all strata of society – from criminals to senators. That's just for starters. If you fail, you can go home and do literary translations, you're pretty good at it." Truly everything comes around…
Did he manage to become a local? That doesn't seem possible… Be that as it may, he learned to write takatos well appreciated by connoisseurs, to understand ship's rigging, and to easily converse with Kharmian smugglers in their gaudy patois. Even now he can guide a gondola through the maze of Old City canals with his eyes closed; he still remembers a dozen open-ended courtyards and other such places where one can lose a tail even when openly tracked by a large team… He had weaved a pretty decent agent network here, and then he had Alviss – this city held no secrets from her… Or, perhaps, she had him?
Alviss was the most glamorous of the Umbar courtesans. From her Belfalas mother who kept a humble port brothel called The Siren's Kiss she had inherited sapphire eyes and hair the color of light copper that instantly drove any Southerner crazy; from her father – a corsair skipper who wound up on a yardarm when the girl was barely a year old – a man's mind, an independent character, and a penchant for well-considered gambles. This combination of qualities enabled her to rise from the port hovels of her birth to her own mansion on Jasper Street, where the cream of the Republic's elite gathered. Alviss' outfits regularly caused major indigestion in wives and official mistresses of high officials, and her body was the model for three large