Кирилл Еськов - The Last Ringbearer

Lady Galadriel: How much time do you need, clofoel of Tranquility?

Clofoel of Tranquility:I believe no less than three days, o radiant Lady.

Clofoel of Might:He just wants to give his bums under the Mound of Somber Mourning something to do, o radiant Sovereigns! This is so simple – let him use his truth potion and that spawn of Morgoth will spill his guts in a quarter-hour!

Lord Cereborn: Indeed, clofoel of Tranquility, why don’t you use the truth potion?

Clofoel of Tranquility:Is that an order, o radiant Lord?

Lord Cereborn: No, no, please don’t…

Clofoel of Tranquility:Thank you, o radiant Lord! It’s a strange thing: were I to start teaching the clofoel of Might how to arrange bowmen or cavalry for battle, he would have taken it as an insult, and he would have been right. Whereas when it comes to detecting criminals, somehow everyone here knows my job better than I do!

Lord Cereborn: No, please don’t take it this way…

Clofoel of Tranquility:As for the truth potion, esteemed clofoel of Might, it has no problem cracking open a Man’s mind – as you’ve correctly noted, it’d take less than a quarter-hour. The problem is sorting all the garbage that will spill from that cracked mind: trust me, it will take more than a few weeks to sift the kernels from the chaff. The potion is great for obtaining confessions, but what we need here is information! And what if something will be unclear at the first pass and explanations will be necessary? We won’t be able to ask a second time, since he’ll have turned into a drooling cretin. Therefore, please allow me to use more traditional methods.

Lady Galadriel: That was an excellent explanation, clofoel of Tranquility, thank you. I can see that the investigation is in good hands, please proceed as you see fit. But I’ve just thought of something. Since the mechanical dragon flew here from outside, this investigation may uncover really interesting nuances that have more to do with Middle Earth than with the Enchanted Forests. Dear Lord Cereborn, do you think that it may be beneficial to involve the clofoel of the World in the investigation, since she’s better acquainted with those specifics?

Lord Cereborn: Yes, yes, that’s very reasonable! Isn’t it, clofoel of Tranquility?

Clofoel of Tranquility:I dare not discuss the directives of the radiant Lady, o radiant Lord. But perhaps it will be easier to remove me from this task altogether, since I am not trusted?

Lord Cereborn: No, don’t even think about it! I’d be lost without you!

Lady Galadriel: We ought to consider the good of Lórien ahead of personal ambitions, clofoel of Tranquility. This is an extraordinary incident; two experts are always better than one. Do you disagree?

Clofoel of Tranquility:How can I, o radiant Lady!

Clofoel of the World:I have always dreamed of working with you, esteemed clofoel of Tranquility. My stores of knowledge and skills are entirely at your disposal, and I hope that they will prove useful.

Clofoel of Tranquility:I have no doubt they will, esteemed clofoel of the World.

Lady Galadriel:This is settled, then; keep us informed, clofoel of Tranquility. What did the clofoel of Stars wish to tell the Council?

Clofoel of Stars:I have no desire to needlessly disturb you, o radiant Sovereigns and esteemed clofoels of the Council, but it appears that this morning the pattern of the stars in the sky has changed slightly. This indicates a change of the entire arrangement of magic in the Enchanted Forests; some new, quite strong magical power has appeared here. The only time something similar had happened in my memory was when the Lady’s Mirror was delivered to Caras Galadhon.

Lady Galadriel: Could your dancers be mistaken, clofoel of Stars?

Clofoel of Stars:I would like to believe that, o radiant Lady. We will dance again tonight…

Kumai came to sooner than the Elves expected. Lifting his head painfully, he saw brilliant white walls with no windows; the sickly bluish light of the phial over a bar door seemed to drip off them onto the floor. He had no clothes on and his right hand was chained to the narrow bed, which was attached to the floor; when he touched his head he jerked his hand back in surprise: it was clean-shaven, with a long recent scar on its top smeared in something stinky and oily to the touch. He leaned back slowly, closed his eyes, and swallowed convulsively: understanding everything, he was scared as never before in his life. He would have given anything for a chance to die right then, before they got started, but – alas! – he had nothing left to give.

“Get up, Troll! No rest for the spawn of Morgoth! You have a long road to hell before you, so let’s get underway.”

There were three Elves – a man and a woman in identical silver-black cloaks and a deferential muscleman in a leather jacket. They appeared in the cell without a sound, moving with unnatural lightness, like huge moths, but somehow it was clear that they had strength to match a Troll’s. The Elf-woman looked the prisoner over unceremoniously and whispered something – apparently obscene – to her companion; the man grimaced chidingly.

“Maybe you’d like to tell us something yourself, Troll?”

“Maybe I would.” Kumai sat up, carefully lowering his legs off the bed, and was now waiting for nausea to subside. He had made a decision and fear receded, having no room left. “What do I get in return?”

“In return?!” The impudence struck the Elf speechless for a couple of seconds. “An easy death. Is that not enough?”

“No, it’s not. Easy death is already there for me; I’ve had a weak heart since childhood, so torturing me is useless; it’ll end when it begins.”

The Elf gave a silvery laugh. “You lie beautifully and engagingly.”

Kumai shrugged. “Give it a try. The higher-ups will give you hell if a spy dies under questioning, no?”

“We are the higher-ups, Troll.” The Elf sat down on a chair just brought into the cell by the man in leather jacket. “But please continue lying, we’re listening with interest.”

What’s there to lie about? He’s no child and understands his position. But he’s no dumb fanatic and has no wish to die for Motherland, his oath, or other such phantoms. Whatever for? The bosses keep sending them to certain death while sitting it out in the rear, cowardly dogs that they are… He’ll tell all he knows, and he knows quite a lot, having been on a lot of special missions for a long time – but not for free. Do you promise to keep him alive? It’s such a small thing for you. In an underground prison forever, in a lead mine, blinded and castrated, but alive?

“Say your piece, then, Troll. If you tell the truth and we find it interesting, we’ll find you a job in our mines. What do you think, milady Eornis?”

“Sure! Why not let him keep his life?”

Very well, his name is Cloud (shouldn’t get tripped up, he did have such a nickname as a child – that brat Sonya came up with it and it stuck to him until the University), Engineer Second Class, his last military unit was a guerilla band led by… Indun (that was an old professor who taught them optics during sophomore year). The band is based in Tzagan- Tzab Gorge in the Ash Mountains (that’s where Dad’s mine is, the place is nature-made for guerilla warfare, there has to be Resistance there… anyway, can’t come up with anything else that’d be consistent on the spot). Yesterday… wait, what day is it today? Ah yes, of course, you ask the questions here, sorry… Anyway, on the morning of the twenty-second he received orders to fly to Lórien so as to reach it on that night and spy out the positioning of the lights in the valley of Nimrodel. Personally he thinks that the whole affair is bogus, driven by desperation among the commanders who seem to be monkeying with some kind of magic. No, this time the order was not given by Indun, but by some other guy, never seen him before, apparently from Army Intelligence, nicknamed Jackal… What he looks like? An Orocuen, short, slanty-eyed, a small scar over the left brow… yes, he’s certain, the left one…