off Swemmel himself at some time in the future. One more war might be-probably would be-one more than Unkerlant could stand.
“He speaks of years,” the king said. “Years! Why were the blunderers he leads not doing more before?”
That was so breathtakingly unfair, Rathar didn’t bother responding to it. He stuck to what he could handle: “Will having the islanders know what they know, whatever it is, hurt our campaign against the Gongs?”
“It should not.” Swemmel glowered down at Rathar. “It had better not, or you will answer for it.”
“Of course, your Majesty,” Rathar said wearily. He tried to look on the bright side of things: “Kuusamo and Lagoas want Gyongyos beaten, too. And then the war-all of the war-will be over. Then we can go on about the business of putting the kingdom back on its feet again.”
As far as he was concerned, that was the most important thing ahead for Unkerlant. King Swemmel gave an indifferent sniff. “We have enemies everywhere, Marshal,” he said. “We must make sure they cannot harm us.” Did he mean
If Mezentio had lived, he might still be alive, alive and wishing for death. Thinking about what Swemmel would have done to the King of Algarve made Rathar shiver, though the audience chamber was warm and stuffy. To keep from thinking of such things, he said, “We’ll soon be in position to begin the attack against Gyongyos.”
“We know.” But Swemmel didn’t sound happy, even at the prospect of beating the last of his foes still in the field. A moment later, he explained why: “We spend our blood, as usual, and the cursed islanders reap the benefit. D’you think they could have invaded the Derlavaian mainland unless our soldiers were keeping the bulk of the Algarvian army busy in the west? Not likely!”
“No, your Majesty, not likely,” Marshal Rathar agreed, “unless, that is, they used this new strong sorcery of theirs, whatever it is, against Mezentio’s men.”
He did want to keep King Swemmel as closely connected to reality as he could. If Kuusamo and Lagoas had this dangerous new magical weapon, Swemmel needed to remember that, or he-and Unkerlant-would fall into danger. But the king’s muttering and eye-rolling alarmed Rathar. “They’re all against us, every cursed one of them,” Swemmel hissed. “But they’ll pay, too. Oh, how they’ll pay.”
“We have to be careful, your Majesty,” Rathar said. “While they have it and we don’t, we’re vulnerable.”
“We know we do, and so we shall,” King Swemmel replied. “We shall pay the butcher’s bill in Gyongyos on account of it. But the day of reckoning shall come. Never forget it for a moment, Marshal. Even against those who play at aiding us, we shall be avenged.”
Rathar nodded. Only later did he wonder whether that warning was aimed at Kuusamo and Lagoas… or at him.
Bembo knew he wouldn’t win a footrace any time soon. If a robber tried to run away from him, odds were the whoreson would get away. On the other hand, that had been true throughout his career as a constable. Long before he’d got a broken leg, he’d had a big belly.
By the middle of summer, though, the leg had healed to the point where he could get around without canes. “I’m ready to go back to work,” he told Saffa.
The sketch artist snorted. “Tell that to somebody who doesn’t know you,” she said. “You’re never ready to work, even when you’re there. Come on, Bembo-make me believe you’re not the laziest man who ever wore a constable’s uniform.”
That stung, not least because it held so much truth. Bembo put the best face on it he could: “Other people look busier than I do because I get it right the first time and they have to run around chasing after themselves.”
“Captain Sasso might believe that,” Saffa said. “A lot of times, officers will believe anything. Me, I know better.”
Since Bembo knew better, too, he contented himself with sticking out his tongue at her. “Well, any which way, I’m going to find out. I never used to think I’d be glad to walk a beat in Tricarico. After everything that went on in the west, though, this will be a treat.” He wouldn’t have to worry about rounding up Kaunians here, or about a Forthwegian uprising, or about the Unkerlanters rolling east like a flood tide about to drown the world. Criminals? Wife-beaters? After all he’d been through in Gromheort and Eoforwic, he would take them in his still-limping stride.
At the constabulary station, the sergeant at the front desk-a man only about half as wide as Sergeant Pesaro, who’d sat in that seat for years-nodded and said, “Aye, go on upstairs to Captain Sasso. He’s the one who makes you jump through the hoops.”
“What hoops are there?” Bembo asked. “I got my leg broken fighting for my kingdom-not constabulary duty,
“Go on.” The sergeant jerked a thumb at the stairway. He was no more disposed to argue than any other sergeant Bembo had ever known.
“Ah, Bembo,” Sasso said when Bembo was admitted to his august presence. “How good to see you back healthy again.”
“Thank you, sir,” Bembo replied, though he felt none too healthy. Climbing the stairs had been hard on his leg. He wasn’t about to admit that, though. Nodding to the officer, he went on, “I’m ready to get back to it.”
Captain Sasso nodded. He wasn’t much older than Bembo; well-founded rumor said he’d gained his fancy rank by knowing to whom to say aye at any given moment. “I’m sure you are,” he replied. “But there are certain. formalities you have to go through first.”
The sergeant had spoken of jumping through hoops. Now Sasso talked about formalities. “Like what, sir?” Bembo asked cautiously.
“You went west,” Sasso said.
“Aye, sir, of course I did,” Bembo replied. Sasso was the one who’d sent him west, along with Pesaro and Oraste and several other constables.
“We have orders from the occupying powers that no man who went west is to serve as a constable before he goes through an interrogation by one of their mages,” Captain Sasso said. “The penalties for going against that particular order are nastier than I really want to think about.”
“What kind of interrogation? What for?” Bembo was honestly confused.
Captain Sasso made a steeple of his fingertips and spelled things out for him: “The occupying powers don’t want anyone who was involved with whatever may have happened in the west with the Kaunians to do any kind of work that entails the trust of the kingdom. You have to understand, Bembo-it’s not up to me. I didn’t give the order. I’m only following it.”
Bembo grunted. He’d only followed orders in the west. Were they going to punish him for it now? And how nasty would this interrogation prove? Every time he thought about that dreadful old Kuusaman wizard, his heart stuttered in his chest. That whoreson had been able to look all the way down to the bottom of his soul.
He steadied himself. “Bring on the cursed wizards. I’m ready for ‘em.”
Sasso blinked. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” Bembo answered. “Either they’ll let me back in or they won’t. If they don’t, how am I worse off than I would be if I didn’t try at all?”
“A point,” the constabulary captain admitted. “You have nerve, don’t you?”
“Sir, I have the balls of a burglar.” Bembo grinned at Sasso. “I nailed ‘em to the wall of my flat, and the burglar’s talked like this”-he raised his voice to a high falsetto squeak-”ever since.”
Captain Sasso laughed. “All right. You’ll get the chance to prove it. Come along with me. I’ll take you to the mage. Do you know any classical Kaunian?”
“Only a little,” Bembo said. “I’m like most people-they tried to thrash it into me at school, and I forgot it as soon as I escaped.”
“Escaped?” Sasso got up from his desk. “You’ve got a way with words, too. Thinking back, I remember that. How many of the reports you filed before the war were nothing but wind and air?” Before Bembo could answer, the captain shook his head. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Just come on.”
“Where are we going?” Bembo asked. “If the stinking Kuusamans want to deal with constables, don’t they have a wizard here?”
