Now Fernao bowed to him. “That is very generous, sir.”
“We have several styles,” Valamo said. “While the gentleman is here, I will show him some of the possibilities.” He took a big book off a shelf and opened it on the counter. “Sir, if you would. . Aye, and you, too, Talsu. You should get a notion of what you will be doing.”
With a sheepish smile, Talsu said, “I certainly should. I have to find out what a Kuusaman wedding suit looks like. I do not make-
To Fernao, Valamo added, “Understand, these are only for guidance. If what you see does not please you, or if you want to combine two styles you do see, we can do that, too.”
Fernao studied the illustrations. So did Talsu. To him, the clothes Kuusamans wore to get married were ridiculously gaudy, but nobody wanted his opinion. Fernao pointed to one and said, “This ought to suit me.”
“You are a man of taste,” Valamo said. “That is a very fine style for a man who is tall and slim, as you are.”
“Except for my eyes, I am never going to look like most Kuusamans,” Fernao said. “But this should do well enough.”
“Not all of us look like me,” Valamo said generously. “Most, aye, but not all. You have that Lagoan accent, and I do not suppose you will lose it, but how did you come to speak Kuusaman like a man from the south coast? Most foreigners try to talk like folk from Yliharma.”
Fernao laughed. “That is because of the company I keep. My fiancee is from Kajaani.”
“I see. I see.” Valamo laughed, too. “Aye, that makes sense.” To Talsu, he said, “You see, here is another foreigner who has learned our tongue. You can do it, too.”
“I hope so,” Talsu said. He asked Fernao, “How long did it take you to feel comfortable speaking Kuusaman every day?”
“Somewhere between one year and two,” Fernao answered. “At first, I would have to use classical Kaunian for words I did not know in Kuusaman. And I should warn you that you may not learn as fast as I did, for I am good with languages.”
“But he is also a younger man than you,” Valamo said. “He has time to learn.”
“I am no scholar,” Talsu said, “but I am doing my best.”
“What more can a man do?” the Kuusaman tailor responded. “Now, do your best to measure the gentleman.”
“One moment,” Fernao said. “First, a part in four off a price of …?”
The haggle quickly went from classical Kaunian into Kuusaman. Talsu knew his numbers, so he could follow pieces of it. He did his best to pick up other words from context. He thought he learned the term for
“Bargain,” Valamo said at last, and stuck out a hand. Fernao took it. To Talsu, Valamo said, “What are you standing there for? Get to work!” He bared his teeth in a smile to show he meant it for a joke, or at least some of a joke.
Talsu took out the tape measure. “Now I will measure you. If you put your tunic on this hanger, sir, so I can get the most accurate measurements…”
In Valmieran, Fernao said, “I am not used to having people as tall as I am around me here in Kuusamo.”
“I understand that,” Talsu answered in Jelgavan. “Children here often think I am something very strange.”
“I have had that happen, too,” Fernao said. “At least they would not suspect you of being an Algarvian.”
“Well, no,” Talsu said. “Raise your arm, if you please, sir. I need another measurement.” When he was through, he nodded to the Lagoan. “That will be all for now. I expect I can have your suit ready for you in a week or so.”
“Good enough,” Fernao said. “Thank you very much.” He reclaimed his tunic, donned it again, and left the shop.
“That was a nice bit of business he just brought us, even with the discount,” Valamo said.
“So it was,” Talsu said. “Doing it will be a pleasure.”
“A man should enjoy his work,” the Kuusaman tailor agreed. “A man should also make money at his work. The Lagoan gentleman understood that. You should, too.”
“If I have to choose between money and friendship, I know what my choice will be,” Talsu said. “If he is going to wed the woman who helped me escape from that dungeon, I owe him everything I can give him.”
“You owe him your best work. He owes you a fair price,” Valamo said. “He will pay one. Now you have to do your best for him.”
“I intend to,” Talsu said.
“Good. Before long, you will be working for yourself, in your own shop. Your labor is all you have. Make it as good as you know how, but do not give very much of it away, or you will not eat.”
“Good advice,” Talsu said. “Let me see the patterns for the style he picked out, please.” Valamo passed him the book. He’d never tried anything so complicated, not on his own, but he thought he could do it. He went into the back of the shop to see exactly what fabric he had available, then settled down and got to work.
Bembo hadn’t wanted to come back to duty on night patrol, but he didn’t dare complain. From Captain Sasso’s point of view, he supposed putting him here on the schedule made sense. Sasso already had a solid rotation of constables. Nobody much cared to go out at night, so why not give the newcomer that shift?
Six years had gone by, near enough, since he’d had the night shift when the war was new. Things had been pretty quiet then, and were pretty quiet now, for the same reason: a curfew was in force. Kuusaman patrols also tramped the streets. Bembo had had to show them his badge once already tonight. He didn’t care for that, but liked the idea of getting blazed even less.
Tricarico wasn’t black now, as it had been when the Derlavaian War was new. No enemy dragons flew overhead, ready to drop eggs on the city. But more than a few enemy dragons now ate their stupid heads off on Algarvian territory. If Bembo’s people ever thought of rising up against their occupiers. . He shuddered. The idea of suicide had never appealed to him.
He strode up the street toward the stump of the old Kaunian column in the center of town. The column itself had come down while he was in Forthweg- razed by the Algarvians, not by enemy action. Not much from the Kaunian past survived in Tricarico these days: not much in all of Algarve, from what he’d heard. The stump was bare, plain marble, about as tall as a man. The reliefs above it? Gone.
Beyond the remains of the column, somebody moved. Bembo’s stick was in his hand on the instant. “Who goes?” he said sharply.
“It’s only me,” a woman’s voice answered. “You wouldn’t do anything to bother me, now would you?”
“Who the blazes-?” Bembo burst out. But the voice was familiar. “Fiametta, is that you?”
“Well, who else would it be, sweetheart?” she said as she came around what was left of the column. Her tunic might have been painted on; her kilt barely covered her shapely backside. “Bembo?” she asked, stopping short in surprise when she recognized him. “I thought you were dead!”
“Not quite,” Bembo said. “What are you doing out after curfew? You ought to know better than that.”
“What do you think I was doing?” Fiametta twitched her hips. “I was working, that’s what. I’ll go along home like a good little girl, I promise.”
Bembo barked laughter. “You haven’t been a good little girl since you got too big to make messes in your drawers. I caught you out right about here back when the war started, remember? I ought to run you in.”
“You wouldn’t do that!” the courtesan exclaimed in dismay.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Bembo said. “You know what time it is. You’re out late. You can’t very well say I beat your door down and dragged you out of bed.”
“Have a heart, Bembo!” Fiametta said. Bembo just stood there, looking official. The woman muttered something under her breath. He couldn’t make out what, which was probably just as well. She sighed. “Look, suppose I give you some, too? Will you leave me alone then? It wouldn’t be the first time, you know.”
