CHAPTER 30

Ithilien, the Settlement

May 15, 3019

The morning that day was wonderful. The watercolor blue of the Ephel Dúath (what idiot had decided to cal then Mountains of Shadow?) was so transparent that their snowy peaks appeared to float in the air above the boundless emerald stretches of Ithilien. For those few minutes the fort of Emyn Arnen on a nearby hill became what its creators must have imagined it to be: a magical forest dwelling, rather than a fortress. The rays of the rising sun have magically transformed the meadow on the edge of the Settlement – the plentiful dew that had previously covered it like a coat of noble faded silver suddenly shone like a spread of uncountable diamonds; perhaps the early May sunrise had surprised the gnomes who had gathered here for their nightly vigil, so now they have fled to their mouse holes, abandoning their painstakingly arranged treasures.

Be that as it may, the three or four hundred people gathered at the meadow (mostly peasants and soldiers) were not inclined to think of the dew poetically: it had drenched them all, many teeth were close to chattering. Nevertheless, no one left; on the contrary, people kept gathering. Men from the distant hamlets joined the inhabitants of the Settlement; news that the White Company was leaving, changing the guard to the newly reconstituted Ithilien regiment, have traveled with lighting speed, and no one wanted to miss the show. Now they were looking at the two motionless ranks facing each other – one black, the other green – at the officers saluting each other with complex movements of bare swords – “I relieve you.”

“I stand relieved.” – and, amazingly, for the first time thought of themselves as Ithilienians rather than settlers from Gondor, Arnor, or Belfalas.

The Prince of Ithilien was a little pale and did not seem too comfortable in the saddle (according to experts in such things); then again, there was no lack of pale faces and beclouded gazes among the White Company, either. (“Guys, betcha the party in the fort last night was a monster, eh?” “Yeah, see them three Whites in the back row on the right? You could prob’ly get buzzed from their breath; they look ready to keel over, poor sods.”) In the meantime, Faramir thanked the White Company for faithful service, bid a ceremonious farewell to his personal guard, and addressed a speech to his subjects:

“Today we are seeing off our friends who have come to our aid in the hour of utmost need, when the fledgling Ithilien Colony was defenseless against the bands of bloodthirsty goblins and Wargs; our heartfelt thanks to you, Guards of the Citadel! (“Hey, cousin: bands o’ goblins… ever see any ‘round here?” “Well, cain’t say as I had, but they say that the other day at the Otter Creek…”) The memory of this aid will remain forever in our hearts, just as the Princedom of Ithilien will forever remain the vassal of the Reunited Kingdom and its shield beyond the Anduin. However, we will defend the Kingdom as we see fit; we dwell beyond the Great River, not in Anórien, so we have to live in peace and harmony with all the local peoples, whether anybody likes it or not. (“What’s he talking about, cousin?”

“Well, I figger that, say, them Trolls in the Mountains of Shadow – word is they have iron like dirt, but not much lumber.” “Yeah, I suppose…”) Anyway. All hail the King of Gondor and Arnor! (“Weird, cousin…” “Hey, dumbass, see them roll out the barrels over yonder?

For a free drink I’ll hail even His Majesty… Hurrah!”)

…The messenger from Minas Tirith (a lieutenant of the Dúnadan Royal Guard) showed up at the meadow when the ceremony was in full swing, his horse all lathered and breathing hard. Sir Elvard, thoroughly cowed by the Secret Guard (“Oblige me by smiling, sir. Smile, you hear?!”), now helplessly watching this unheard-of treachery – surrender of a key fortress without a fight – looked up and a faint hope arose in his heart: His Majesty must have somehow learned about this rebellion and has sent him an order to polish off all those dyed-in-the-wool traitors – from Faramir to Cheetah… Alas, the message was indeed from Aragorn, but it was addressed to the captain of the Secret Guard. Cheetah broke the White Tree seal right then and there and lost himself in reading; then he folded the message unhurriedly and handed it to Sir Elvard with a strange chuckle:

“Read this, Lieutenant. I think you’ll find it interesting.”

The letter was a set of detailed instructions on how the White Company was to proceed under the new circumstances. Aragorn wrote that the preservation of the status quo required identifying all the bases of the Ithilien regiment and destroying them in one fell swoop, so that not a single man would escape. The strike was to be lightning-fast and absolutely secret; as for who was to be blamed for this monstrous evil deed – the mountain Trolls, goblins, or Morgoth himself – that was up to the captain. However, should there be any doubts whatsoever as to the success of such an operation (for example, if critical time was lost and there were already almost as many Ithilienians as the Whites), then it was to be aborted. In that case they were to make virtue out of necessity: transfer the duty of guarding Emyn Arnen to the officers of the Ithilien regiment in exchange for Faramir’s confirmation of his vassal’s oath and return to Minas Tirith, leaving only their intelligence network behind. His Majesty reminded that Faramir’s life was sacrosanct in any and all circumstances, and that anyone who would provoke an open confrontation between the Ithilienians and the White Company (which event would immediately cause a civil war in the princedom and tear apart the Reunited Kingdom) will be executed for treason. To put it succinctly: once you start the job, finish it, but don’t start if you’re not sure.

His Majesty wrote in a post-scriptum: “There are many sovereigns in this world who love cloaking their orders in hints in order to later blame those doing their will for ‘misunderstanding orders.’ Be it known that Elessar of Valandil is not one of them – he always accepts responsibility and calls things what they are, and his orders say only what they say. Should there be found among the White Company any officers who – motivated by excess zeal – would mistake explicit bans for a veiled desire of the King, Captain Cheetah is to neutralize any such officer at any cost.”

“As you can see, Lieutenant, by letting you live during your escapades last night, I was going against the King’s orders, to some extent.”

“So you’ve known about this order?” Sir Elvard looked at Cheetah with superstitious fear.

“You’re overestimating my abilities. It’s just that, unlike you, I can figure at least two moves in advance.”

“…They’re leaving! Look, they’re really leaving!” Grager breathed finally, watching the column of Whites take to the Osgiliath Highway. He kept the fingers of his left hand crossed in a special way, just in case. “To be honest, I didn’t quite believe it and kept waiting for some treachery to the last moment… You’re a genius, Your Majesty!”

“That’s ‘Your Highness,’ Baron, and please keep in mind – I absolutely will not tolerate any joking in this matter.”

“My apologies, Your Highness.”

“However,” Faramir looked over the Ithilien regiment fighters gathered around him with a slight smile, “each one of you is hereby entitled to address me as ‘my Captain,’ for old times’ sake. Obviously, this will not be a hereditary privilege. All right, guys. Her Highness will show you to the castle – the food is served and the bottles are uncorked –while myself and the officers and… erm… our Eastern guests will catch up with you in ten minutes or so… So what were you wishfully saying there, Baron Grager: you really think that they’ve left?”

“No, my Captain. Their spy network…”

“Yes, exactly. What do you propose to do about it?”

“Nothing, Your Highness.”

“Explain.”

“Sure. It makes no sense to prosecute those of Cheetah’s people that we’ve identified: since Ithilien was and is a vassal of Gondor, they’ve committed no crime by working for the monarch of the Reunited Kingdom. Sometimes in such circumstance you do away with a spy quietly, but that’s an extreme measure: by doing so we’d announce to Minas Tirith that we’re at the very least openly hostile, if not at war with them. Most importantly, Prince, I’m almost certain that we have not identified the entire network. Should we arrest the ones we know, we’d allow them free use of any remaining agents. Whereas if we touch nobody, it’ll be impossible to figure out which ones we know about and which we don’t, so they’ll have to consider the entire network compromised. Even if they don’t simply abandon it, they’ll for sure put it to sleep for a long time. At least I wouldn’t touch such a semi-compromised network with a ten-foot pole.”

“Very well; this will be your call now, Baron Grager. I hereby promote you to Captain and grant you the requisite powers.”

“Wow!” Tangorn laughed. “I see that the setup of the state of Ithilien is proceeding in an unusual fashion – its first institution is the counter-intelligence service!..”

Faramir shrugged: “With neighbors such as these… In any event, I doubt that this is of much interest to our guests. Tzerlag, where are you?.. I have to admit to a certain difficulty: your exploits of last night definitely make you worthy of a knighthood, but that would create a host of technical problems. In any event, what use is Gondorian knighthood to a desert warrior?”

Tzerlag shook his head. “No use, Your Highness.”

“See? Well, I guess there’s no choice but to fall back onto the ancient legends: ask your heart’s desire, Sergeant! But please keep in mind that I don’t have daughters of marriageable age yet, and as for the Prince’s treasury… what do we have there, Beregond?”

“A hundred thirty six gold pieces, Your Highness.”

“Yeah, not quite the Hoard of Vendotenia… Perhaps you’d like to think about it, Sergeant?

Oh, by the way, I have another debt to pay – for your rescue of this fair sir.”

The Orocuen was abashed. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but we… how should I put it… we’re kinda together, so our request will be mutual. Better let Baron Tangorn tell you; consider that I gave my rights over to him.”

“Ah so?” The prince looked over the three comrades with gay amusement. “This just keeps getting more interesting. I suppose it’s a confidential request?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“…As I understand it, Baron, you’re going to ask for the palantír,” Faramir began after they rode about twenty paces away from the rest of the group. He was gloomy, with no trace of amusement remaining on his face.

“So you’ve guessed already, Prince?”

“I’m not a total fool; why else would you ask me to escape with it? I just couldn’t imagine that you’re working together with these guys. So now I’ll have to hand a magic crystal over to Mordorians. A nice bind you got me into, no question.”

“That is not so, Your Highness. Haladdin is not in Mordor’s service anymore; he is acting by himself and on behalf of entire Middle Earth, if I may be so bold. The sad thing is that I don’t have the right to let you know what his mission is, therefore I ask you to trust my word.”

Faramir brushed it off: “That’s not what I’m talking about. You know that I’ve always trusted you; more than I trust myself, in some things. It’s just that – what if all three of you are someone else’s puppets and that someone is using you for his own gain? Try analyzing this situation once more, this time as a professional spy, rather than a friend of Haladdin and Tzerlag.”

“I’ve done so many times and have this to say: whoever had started this originally, Haladdin will only play his own game, and this guy is very, very resilient – take my word for it – even though he doesn’t look the part. And another thing – I really like him, and I will do what I can to help him win.”

After some thought the prince grumbled: “All right. Let’s consider me persuaded. How can I help you three?”

“First, please accept my resignation,” the baron began, and explained to puzzled Faramir: “I will have to visit Umbar for some time, and I plan to operate there as a private person, so as not to put Your Highness in a false light…”