CHAPTER 45

Umbar, Lamp Street

Night of June 14, 3019

The Umbarians all say that whoever has not seen the Big Carnival has not seen anything worthwhile in his life. Arrogant as it sounds, there are solid grounds for saying so. It is not the beauty of the fireworks and costumed processions, although they are magnificent. The most important part is that on the second Sunday of June all societal barriers crumble into dust: streetwalkers turn into highborn damsels and the damsels turn into streetwalkers, while a couple of comedians performing a skit making fun of famously slow-witted inhabitants of the Peninsula may turn out to be a senator and a member of the paupers’ guild. It is a day when time runs backward and everyone can reclaim their wonderfully reckless youth, like the warm gentle lips of some girl in a black mask you just stole from her previous partner; it is a day when profiting is sinful and stealing is just déclassé. On that day everyone is allowed to do anything except breach another’s incognito…

In that sense the actions of two noble sirs who had fallen behind a bead-strung firecracker-popping procession making its way down Lamp Street at the Mint Alley intersection should be termed improper, although said actions were apparently well-intentioned. Those two persons – one in a multicolored bodysuit of a circus gymnast, another decked out in jester’s bells – were bending over a third one, in a blue-and-gold stargazer’s cloak, who was prostrated on the ground. Not too skillfully trying to revive him (“Hey, man, wake up!”), they have removed his silvery mask; it was plain that the would-be rescuers themselves were barely on their feet.

A chirping flock of three girls in assorted dominos emerged from the alley straight onto the scene. “Partners, partners!” they chorused, clapping, “and just the right number! The gymnast is mine! Come along, pretty boy!”

“Easy, sisters, easy!” the gymnast responded. “See, our third friend is kinda out of it…”

“Oh, poor kid! Drink too much?”

“Dunno. Just been dancing his feet off in the procession and then suddenly whoa! and he’s down. Not as if he’s been drinking much…”

“Maybe I can bring him back to life with a kiss?” the blue domino purred coquettishly.

The jester grinned: “Go ahead, baby – maybe he’ll throw up, it’d help for sure!”

“Yuck! Jerk…” the girl was offended.

“There, my beauties, don’t get all upset, all right?” the gymnast said amiably, hugging the purple domino a bit below the waist with a steady arm (rewarded with an immediate sultry

“Ah, the cheek!”). “You’re all total hits, we love you all to death and all that. Got any wine?.. Too bad. Here’s what we’ll do: you take the Mint to the seashore, buy enough Núrnen for all of us,” with those words he handed the girl a small pouch full of small silver coins, “and, most importantly, stake out some seats close to the musicians. We’ll catch up with you in a few minutes, as soon as we drag this character to that lawn over there, let him sleep it off on the grass… Imagine being saddled with this on Carnival!..”

When the girls disappeared in the alley, their heels clicking loudly on the flagstones, the jester let out his breath and shook his head, as if disbelieving his luck: “Phew! I thought that was it and we’d have to off them…”

“Yeah, I know you like swift and drastic solutions,” grumbled the gymnast, “that’s why I have to watch you like a hawk. Did you stop to think of how we’d get rid of three bodies here, eh?”

“No idea,” the other admitted honestly. “So what now, chief – are we all right?”

“Not sure, so – no wet work, but following up on them is necessary. Who the hell knows who these girls are, though they don’t look like cover. Track them to the shore and double back immediately if anything is amiss.”

“What about you, all by yourself?”

“Mantzenilla is good stuff, the guy won’t come around for at least an hour. Here, help me pick him up,” the gymnast crouched by the still stargazer, “I’ll manage the hundred yards to our door somehow.”

…The stargazer’s surfacing from his drugged stupor was slow and labored, but the moment he stirred he got his nostrils pinched and a draught of cola-based stimulant poured down his throat – time was short, the interrogation could not wait. He coughed and hacked (some of the burning liquid went down the wrong pipe) and opened his eyes. The first glance told him clearly enough the predicament he was in: a windowless room (but still more likely a ground floor than a basement), two men wearing carnival outfits of a gymnast and a jester; wait, wait… yes, these two had danced in the same procession with him, and then – right! –the gymnast gave him some wine to drink from a glass flask with merry eastern dragons on its sides. And an excellent wine it was, except two draughts knocked him out to then find himself who knows where with his arms securely tied to an armchair, with a nausea-inducing array of tools in a large tin bowl on a stool in front of him. A cold hand seemed to grab his guts at a mere look at them. How’s this possible – he remembers the gymnast drinking from the same flask? An antidote? Actually, who cares, the most important part is who these guys are – the Department or 12 Shore Street? He looked away, at the fire-lit masked face of the jester, who was busily stirring the coals in a large floor censer, and shuddered almost violently enough to spasm his back muscles.

The gymnast broke the silence: “Mister Algali, Junior Secretary of the Foreign Ministry, if I’m not mistaken?” He was sitting a bit away, attentively looking at the prisoner.

“You’re not mistaken. To whom do I have the honor of speaking?” The Junior Secretary had gathered his wits and displayed only surprise with no outward sign of fear.

“My name will mean nothing to you. I represent the Secret Guard of the Reunited Kingdom and hope to work with you. The set-up here is not as diverse as the one at 12 Shore Street, of course, but the basement is almost as good.”

“Your recruiting methods are rather strange.” Algali shrugged, and something akin to relief showed in his face. “You should realize already that it’s much easier to buy than to rob here, in the South. You want me for your network? Sure! Why stage this stupid show?”

“The show was not as stupid as it might seem. The thing is, what we need is not the Khand-related information that you have access to at work, but something very different.”

The Junior Secretary raised a questioning eyebrow: “I don’t understand.”

“Quit mucking around – you’ve already understood everything, unless you’re an idiot. We need the Elvish network of which you’re a part – names, safe houses, passwords. Well?”

“Elvish network? Have you guys sniffed too much kokkaine?” Algali grunted nonchalantly– too nonchalantly, given the situation.

“Now listen to me, and listen carefully. I’d much rather not have to use any of this,” the gymnast gestured towards the bowl and the censer, “but there are only two options here.

Option one: you tell us everything you know, then go home and keep working with us.

Option two is you tell us everything you know with our help,” another nod at the center, “but then you won’t leave here. You can imagine how you’ll look afterwards, so why traumatize your Elvish friends? I like option one better; how about you?”

“So do I, but I have nothing to tell you either way. You’ve made a mistake, I’m not the person you want.”

“Is that your last word? I mean – the last before we begin?”

“Yes. It’s a mistake, I’ve never heard of any Elvish network.”

“You just blew it, buddy!” the gymnast chortled in satisfaction. “See, were you a regular Umbarian official, you’d either be having hysterics now or inventing this network out of your head on the spot. We’d be catching your inconsistencies, you’d then be lying anew…but you aren’t even trying to buy time. So even if I had any doubts about you before, I don’t know. Got any objections?”

Algali was silent – there was nothing to say and no need to say anything. Most importantly, a strange tranquility descended on him. The Power of which he was a part came to his rescue; he felt its presence almost physically as a touch of a mother’s warm hands: “Please endure it, son! It won’t be too terrible and you have to endure it for only a short time. Don’t be afraid, for I am here with you!” Amazingly, the gymnast detected the invisible presence of this Power, too: one glance at Algali’s serene smile was enough for him to understand that the damn kid has just slipped through his fingers. Once beyond his power, he could do anything to him now – the prisoner will die without saying a word. This happens rarely, but it does happen. Then he simply punched the man tied to the armchair in the face, putting all his fury into the blow: “Son of a bitch, Elvish whore!” thereby acknowledging his defeat.

“An Elvish whore? How interesting!”

Nobody had noticed when a fourth man, this one dressed like a mashtang bandit, slipped through the door. The mashtang’s sword, however, was definitely not of costume quality; an application of its hilt to the gymnast’s skull immediately put the latter out of commission.

The jester had the time to back away and get his blade out, but this did not help him: he was hopelessly outclassed as a fencer, so in less than ten seconds the guest cut open the host’s chest with a long diagonal lunge, splattering blood in all directions, including on the stargazer. After carefully wiping the sword with a rag he picked up from the floor, the mashtang gazed at the prisoner with gloomy surprise:

“As I understand it, fair sir, these guys were trying to implicate you as belonging to the Elvish underground. Is that so?”