Darkness Descending (41 page)

Miserably, Almonio nodded. “Aye, I think that’s what it is. I know what’s going to happen to the whoresons once we take ‘em, and I don’t much want to be a part of it.”

Bembo’s eyes got wider and wider as he listened. “Powers above,” he whispered to Oraste, “the sergeant’ll tear him limb from limb.”

“Aye, so he will.” Oraste sounded as if he was looking forward to it.

Pesaro, though, seemed more curious than furious. “Suppose we’re rounding up the blonds and they try and fight us? What are you going to do then, Almonio? You going to stand there and let the Kaunians kill your comrades?”

“Of course not, Sergeant,” Almonio answered. “I just don’t want to have to. drag them out of their houses, that’s all. It’s a filthy business.”

“War is a filthy business,” Pesaro said, but he still didn’t sound angry. He rubbed his chins as he thought. At last, he pointed toward the reluctant constable. “All right, Almonio, here’s what you’ll do for today: you’ll stand guard while the rest of us winkle out the Kaunians. If they give any trouble—if they even look like they might give any trouble—you start blazing. Have you got that?”

“Aye, Sergeant.” Almonio stopped marching for a moment so he could bow. “I thank you, Sergeant.”

“Don’t thank me too much,” Pesaro answered. “And, by the powers above, keep your cursed mouth shut, or we’re both in hot water.” He shook his head. “Warm water would feel good right now, but not that hot.”

Well, well
—
isn’t that interesting?
Bembo thought.
I’ve got a hold on Pesaro, if I ever want one.
He lifted off his hat so he could scratch his head. The way things were, he couldn’t see wanting one. He’d spent years getting used to Pesaro—and getting Pesaro used to him. Any other sergeant was too likely to be harder on him. He laughed a sour laugh. Wasn’t that the way of the world?—come up with something that looked good and then decide you couldn’t use it.

Into Hwinca marched the constabulary squad. The village was smaller and dingier than Oyngestun; it didn’t lie on a ley line, and so seemed more a product of a distant time than Oyngestun had. And Oyngestun, as far as Bembo was concerned, hadn’t been anything to write home about, either.

He didn’t write home very often, anyhow. He’d quarreled endlessly with his father before going out on his own; they still had little to do with each other. His sister had quarreled with the old man, too. But Lanfusa’s escape had been to marry a furrier who was now on his way to being rich. She didn’t like being reminded her brother was only a constable. If he sent a letter to Safta, she might write back. She was likelier to fall over dead from shock, though.

A few Forthwegians nodded to the constables. One of them grinned and winked and clapped his hands, almost as if he were an Algarvian. The leer on his face made Bembo remember that what he was doing in Forthweg probably ought not to go down in writing to anyone.

“Kaunians, come forth!” Pesaro shouted in a great voice when he got to Hwinca’s village square. Evodio turned his words from Algarvian into classical Kaunian. That was the tongue the blonds hereabouts still spoke, or near enough as to make no difference.

No matter what language the order came in, the Kaunians ignored it. Bembo turned to Oraste. “There—you see? They’ve got a notion of what’s going to happen to them. They won’t come out all by themselves, not anymore. We’re going to have to go in after ‘em. It’ll be a lot of extra work from now on.”

Oraste hefted his stick. “Liable to be dangerous work, too. If they figure they’re going to get shipped west anyhow, who’s to say they won’t decide they’ve got nothing to lose and try and take some of us with ‘em?”

“Aye.” That had occurred to Bembo, too. He wished it hadn’t.

Pesaro shouted again. His voice echoed off the houses and shops facing the square. Again, Evodio translated his words into classical Kaunian. Again, none of the yellow-haired men and women in Hwinca came forth. “Well, we’ll have to do it the hard way,” Pesaro said. His chuckle had a nasty edge. “You know what, though? I don’t think it’ll be too hard.” He beckoned to the Forthwegian who’d applauded the constables’ arrival. “Come here, pal. Aye, you. You speak Algarvian?”

With a show of regret, the villager shook his head. Pesaro looked exasperated. Neither he nor any of his men spoke any Forthwegian past what little they’d picked up since coming from Tricarico. Evodio said, “I’ll bet he speaks Kaunian, Sergeant.”

“Find out,” Pesaro said. Sure enough, intelligence lit on the Forthwegian’s face. Pesaro nodded. “Good. Tell him we’ll pay him—doesn’t have to be anything much or I’m a Yaninan—if he’ll show us which houses the Kaunians live in.”

That fellow turned out not to be the only villager who spoke Kaunian; three or four others clamored for a share of the reward, too. Bembo and Oraste followed one of them to a house that didn’t look any different from those to either side of it. The Forthwegian pointed at the door, as dramatically as if he were a hunting dog pointing at a woodcock.

“Kaunians, come forth!” the two constables shouted together. Nobody came forth. Bembo and Oraste looked at each other. They drew back a couple of paces, then slammed the door with their shoulders. It flew inward, the brackets in which its bar rested pulled out of the wall. Bembo sprawled on hands and knees in the front hall; he’d expected to bounce off his first try. Oraste kept his feet, but barely.

“They’ll pay for that, the scum,” Bembo muttered as he got to his feet. “Come on, let’s turn this place inside out.”

Sticks at the ready, he and Oraste swept through the house. They didn’t have to search long or hard: they found the Kaunians—a man and woman of about Bembo’s age, with two little girls too young to be interesting—cowering in a pantry in the kitchen. Oraste gestured with his stick. “Come out, every cursed one of you!” he growled.

“Aye, sir,” said the man, in decent Algarvian. He was, Bembo judged, frightened almost out of his wits, but doing his best not to show it for the sake of his family. In a low, urgent voice, he went on, “Whatever you want so you will say you could not find us, I will give it to you. I have money. I am not a poor man. All of it is yours—only let us live.”

“Kaunian,” Oraste said: an all-inclusive rejection. Bembo gave his comrade a dirty look. He’d wanted to see how much the blond would offer. But he couldn’t get away with that if Oraste didn’t go along.

The yellow-haired man whispered something to his wife. She bit her lip, but nodded. “Not money, then,” the Kaunian man said rapidly, desperately. “But anything you want. Anything.” He gestured to the woman. She undid the top toggle of her tunic. She wasn’t bad-looking—she wasn’t bad-looking at all—but. ..

“Out in the street, all of you,” Bembo barked. He was disgusted at himself, but more disgusted at the Kaunians for sinking so low and for reminding him how low he’d sunk. The blond man sighed. Now that he saw it was hopeless, he regained a measure of the dignity he’d thrown away. He put his arms around his daughters and shepherded them out. His wife set her tunic to rights before following.

“Good. You’ve got four,” Pesaro said, seeing the Kaunians Bembo and Oraste had found. A double handful more already stood glumly in the square. Before long, the constables had their quota from Hwinca.

Pesaro paid the Forthwegians who’d helped his men round up the blonds. One of the villagers said something in Kaunian as he got his money. Evodio translated: “He wants to know why we’re only taking this many, why we’re not cleaning out all of them.”

“Tell him this is what we got ordered to do, so this is what we’re doing,” Pesaro answered. “It’s just our job.” That was how he thought of it, too. Almonio’s conscience needed more of a shield. It all came down to the same thing in the end, though. The constables marched the Kaunians off toward Gromheort, off toward the caravans that would take them west.

Traku shook his head back and forth, back and forth, a man seemingly caught in the grip of nightmare. Before throwing his hands in the air in despair, he stared toward his son. “I have more cursed orders than I know what to do with,” he moaned.

They’d been facing different problems a few weeks before. “That one Algarvian liked the outfit you made for him, so he went and told his friends,” Talsu answered. “By everything I’ve seen, the redheads do like to talk.”

“I wouldn’t mind if. . .” Traku corrected himself: “I wouldn’t mind
so much
if I didn’t think all the talk going through Skrunda had to have some truth behind it. But if I’m slaving for the Algarvians while they’re doing horrible things to our folk, that’s hard to stomach.”

“Aye,” Talsu said, “but you know how rumors are. One day everybody says this was bound to happen, the next day it’s that, and then the day after it’s something else. In the war, the Algarvians weren’t any worse than we were, and that’s the truth. They might have been better.” He remembered Colonel Dzirnavu and the captive Algarvian woman he’d taken into his pavilion. Not a soul in the regiment had shed a tear when she cut Dzirnavu’s fat throat.

“Here’s hoping you’re right,” Traku said. “I don’t know that I think you are, but here’s hoping.”

Before he or Talsu could say anything further, the door to the tailor’s shop opened and an Algarvian officer came inside. Not just
an
Algarvian officer, Talsu saw, but
the
Algarvian officer: the one who’d made Traku popular among his countrymen garrisoned in Skrunda. “Good day, sir,” Talsu said, and then, on taking a closer look, “Are you all right?”

“All right? Of course I am all right. Why shouldn’t I be all right?” the redhead said in his accented Jelgavan. He staggered rather than walked, red tracked his eyes, and the stench of strong spirits came off him in waves. Pointing a peremptory finger at Traku, he said, “My good man, I require a cloak of the heaviest stuff you can buy, and I require it as soon as you can possibly turn it out, which had better be pretty cursed quick, do you hear me?”

“Aye, sir, I do,” Traku said, “though if you’ll forgive my saying so, a heavy cloak isn’t the sort of garment you’ll get much use from in Jelgava.”

“Jelgava?” the Algarvian officer cried. “Jelgava?” He might never have heard of the kingdom before. “Who said anything about cursed Jelgava? They’re shipping me to Unkerlant is what they’re doing. They haven’t had enough men killed there to satisfy them yet, so they’re going to try to put me on the list, too. Go ahead, tell me I won’t need a cloak like that in Unkerlant.”

“It’s supposed to be a cold kingdom, for true.” Traku turned brisk. “Now, then, sir, what will you pay me for such a cloak?”

‘As if money matters when I am going to Unkerlant!” the Algarvian exclaimed. As far as Talsu was concerned, that proved how drunk he was: money always mattered. The redhead fumbled about in his belt pouch and set two gold-pieces on the counter in front of Traku. “There! Does that satisfy you?”

“Aye,” Traku answered in a strangled voice. Talsu stared at the gold coins, both stamped with King Mezentio’s beaky visage. He didn’t blame his father for sounding astonished. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen gold. Traku gathered himself and asked, “When will you require the cloak, sir?”

“Day after tomorrow—no later,” the Algarvian answered. “The cursed ley-line caravan leaves the day after that. Unkerlant!” It was almost a howl of despair. “What did I do to make someone want to send me to Unkerlant?”

“Maybe Algarve is running short on soldiers,” Talsu said. He didn’t want to sound as if he was gloating but had trouble doing anything else. His father hissed at him in alarm, lest he queer the bargain. Traku might not want to serve the Algarvians, but he didn’t mind taking their money.

Fortunately, the officer paid Talsu’s tone no mind.
“Someone
still has to garrison Jelgava,” he said. “It might as well be me.”

This time, Talsu had the sense to keep his mouth shut. Traku said, “A cloak is not a complicated garment. I can make one for you in two days, sir. The heaviest wool I can lay my hands on, is that right?”

“Just exactly right.” The Algarvian officer snapped his fingers. “The heaviest light-colored wool you can lay your hands on. I don’t care to stand out like a lump of coal against the stinking snowfields.”

“Aye,” Traku said tonelessly. When Talsu glanced his father’s way, Traku wouldn’t meet his eye. Had he planned on giving the Algarvian a black cloak in the hope that it would get him killed? Talsu couldn’t prove it, and he couldn’t ask, either, no matter how drunk the redhead was. The fellow might note what he said and might remember it after leaving.

For now, the Algarvian just stood there, swaying gently. “Unkerlant,” he said again, his voice a mournful bleat. “What did I do to deserve being sent to Unkerlant?”

“I couldn’t say, sir,” Traku replied. “I’ll have your cloak ready day after tomorrow. Thick wool, light-colored. A very good day to you.”

He was, Talsu realized, trying to get the officer out of the shop. Rather to Talsu’s surprise, the Algarvian took the hint, too. He lurched back out onto the street, slamming the door behind him. When he was gone, Talsu stared at the coins he’d set on the counter. “Gold, Father,” he murmured.

“Aye, and enough to buy him half a dozen cloaks,” Traku answered. “Well, I’ll give him a good one. I could face it with fur—powers above, I could cursed near face it with ermine—but he didn’t ask for that, so he’ll have to do without.”

“You ought to give him something shoddy,” Talsu said. “Who cares if the whoreson freezes? He’ll do it a long way from here.”

“Maybe I ought to, but I won’t,” his father said. “My pride won’t let me. I’ll dicker hard on price, but not on the quality of the goods once I have a price, and besides, the lousy bugger may write to his friends back here, or he may even come back here himself one day. The Algarvians are still moving ahead, or that’s what the news sheets say, anyhow.”

“They say whatever the Algarvians want them to say,” Talsu pointed out. “They say Mainardo’s the best king Jelgava ever had, and everybody loves him.”

“Oh. That.” Traku shrugged. “Everybody knows that’s a lie, so what’s the use of getting upset about it? Most of the time, though, you can find out when they’re stretching things if you ask around a little. I haven’t heard anybody say the Algarvians aren’t still advancing. Have you?”