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now.”
    “May I join you, Sergeant?” Tangorn asked unexpectedly, and explained to the puzzled Orocuen: “They took my sword, a family heirloom. It would be nice to get the Slumber-maker back; besides, I would rather like to send these guys my regards from beyond the grave.”
    The scout studied the Gondorian directly for some time, then nodded: “Tangorn … Yeah, I do remember you from Osgiliath last year. It was you took down Detz-Zeveg, the ‘King of Spearmen.’”
    “Right, I have had this honor.”
    “The only thing is, we don’t have a sword to fit you. Ever use a scimitar?”
    “I’ll figure it out somehow.”
    “All right, then.”

CHAPTER 11
    Mordor, near the Old Núrnen Highway
    Night of April 11, 3019
    W  here have you studied languages, Baron?”
    “Well, I’ve spent over six years in Umbar and Khand, if that’s what you mean, but I’ve started at home. Prince Faramir – we’re childhood friends – has an excellent library, all in Eastern languages, of course; could I let it go unused? That’s why I’m here in Mordor, actually – I wanted to sift through the wreckage. Put together a whole bag of books; those guys took it, by the way, together with the Slumber-maker .” Tangorn nodded towards a double-crested dune where darkness hid Eloar’s camped company, tracked by Tzerlag. “Among other things I’ve found a loose page of splendid verse I haven’t seen before:
    I swear by near and by far,
I swear by sword and fight that’s fair,
I swear by the morning star
I swear by the evening prayer …
    Would you happen to know the author?”
    “That’s Saheddin. Strictly speaking, he’s a wizard and an alchemist, not a poet. He publishes verse from time to time, and claims that he’s only a translator of texts created in other worlds. You’re right, the poetry’s excellent.”
    “Damn, but that’s a cute idea! For sure, one can describe the World in a myriad ways, but a true poetic text where you can’t change a single letter has to be the most precise and economical one, and universal for that reason alone! If there is anything in common between various worlds, it has to be poetry … and music, of course. Such texts must exist aside from us, written into the very fabric of what Is and what Could Be by the sound of a seashell, the pain of unrequited love, the smell of spring forest – one must only learn to perceive them … Poets do this intuitively, but what if this Saheddin had discovered a formal method for doing so? Why not?”
    “Right, something like modern geology to look for ores, rather than unreliable guesses of the dowsers. So you, too, think that the World is Text?”
    “The world I inhabit certainly is, but that’s a matter of taste.”
    Yeah, the World is Text, thought Haladdin. Wouldn’t it be nice to someday read the paragraph describing how one day I will join two likeable professional killers (what else are they?) to hunt nine subhumans (why, how are those different from all the others?) and will carry on a profound discussion of poetry right before the battle, to control the taste of copper in my mouth and the disgusting feeling of cold fear at the pit of my stomach? Truly, the author of such a text has a great imagination and a great future.
    His musings were interrupted when a bright double star above the dune hiding them blinked as if obscured by a bird of the night. So this is it … would that he could have a stiff drink right now … He rose into a crouch and began stuffing his weapons for tonight – a short Orocuen bow of unfamiliar construction and a quiver with six mismatched arrows – into his shoulder bag. Meanwhile, Tangorn, still unaccustomed to Tzerlag’s skills, stared in mute amazement at the scout who had silently appeared from nowhere a few steps away.
    “Fair sirs, one can hear your whispers from thirty paces off. Were it my boys rather than those lowlifes, you’d already be counting stars on the One’s robes … Whatever, bygones.