Out of the Darkness

The fellow in the cot next to his was a civilian who’d got his leg broken here in Tricarico at about the same time as Bembo had over in Eoforwic. His name was Tibiano. By the way he talked, Bembo suspected he’d seen the inside of a constabulary station or two in his time. “I’ll lay you three to two the fornicating islanders send dragons over again tonight,” he said now.

“I wouldn’t mind getting laid, but not by you, thanks,” Bembo answered. Tibiano chuckled. Bembo went on, “I won’t touch the bet, either. Those whoresons come over just about every night.”

“Isn’t that the sad and sorry truth?” Tibiano agreed. “Who would’ve thunk it? We started this war to kick everybody else’s arse, not to get ours kicked. Those other bastards deserve it. What did we ever do to anybody?”

Having been in Forthweg, Bembo knew just what-or some of just what- his kingdom had done. He hadn’t talked much about that since returning to Tricarico. For one thing, he hadn’t thought anybody would believe him. For another, he would just as soon have forgotten. But he couldn’t leave that unanswered. “There are some Kaunians who’d say we’ve done a thing or two to them.” And there would be a lot more, if they were still alive.

“Blonds? Futter blonds,” Tibiano said. “They’ve always tried to keep us Algarvians from being everything we ought to be. They’re jealous, that’s what they are. Like I say, they deserve it.”

He spoke loudly and passionately, as people do when sure they’re right. Several other men in the ward lifted their heads and agreed with him. So did the young woman who was taking away their supper tins. No one had a good word to say about any Kaunians. Bembo didn’t argue. He didn’t love the blonds, either. And the last thing he wanted was for anyone to say he did. Calling an Algarvian a Kaunian-lover had always been good for starting a fight. These days, though, calling him a Kaunian-lover was about the same as calling him a traitor.

Night came early, though not so early as it did farther south. Trapani endured hours more darkness each winter night than Tricarico did, and suffered because of it. But what Tricarico went through wasn’t easy, either.

Bembo had just dropped into a fitful, uncomfortable sleep-he would have killed to be able to roll over onto his belly-when alarm bells started clanging. “Come on!” he shouted. “We’re all supposed to run down to the cellar.”

Curses and jeers answered him. Hardly any of the men in this ward could get out of their cots, let alone run. If an egg burst on the sanatorium, then it did, and that was all there was to it. Bembo cursed the bells. He’d heard them too often in Eoforwic. And the last time you heard them there, you didn’t get to a shelter, or even a hole in the ground, fast enough.

In the dark ward, somebody asked, “Where are all the fancy spells the news sheets keep promising?”

“Up King Mezentio’s arse,” somebody else answered. Bembo probably wasn’t the only one trying to figure out who’d said that. But the dark could cover all sorts of treason. At least for now, the disgruntled Algarvian had got away with speaking his mind.

Eggs didn’t start falling right away. Algarvian dowsers were good at what they did. They’d probably picked up the enemy dragons’ motion as soon as the beasts came over the Bradano Mountains. But how much good would that do without enough Algarvian dragons to go up there and knock the Kuusamans and Lagoans out of the sky? Not much, Bembo thought dismally.

As soon as eggs did begin to drop, beams from heavy sticks started probing up into the sky. But the air pirates had plenty of tricks. Along with eggs, they dropped fluttering strips of paper that drove dowsers mad: how to detect the motion of dragons when all that other motion distracted them? Because they couldn’t tell the men at the heavy sticks exactly where the enemy dragons were, the beams from those sticks struck home only by luck.

And if an egg lands right on top of this stinking sanatorium, that’ll be luck, too, Bembo thought-bloody bad luck. No one was supposed to try to drop eggs on buildings where healers worked, but accidents, mistakes, misfortunes happened.

When an egg burst close enough to rattle the shutters over the windows, someone in a ward down the hall started screaming. His shrill cries went on and on, then stopped very abruptly. Bembo didn’t care to think about what had probably just gone on in that other ward.

Eggs kept falling through most of the night. Bembo got a little fitful sleep, but not much. The same, no doubt, would be true for everybody in Tricarico. Even people who weren’t hurt wouldn’t be worth much in the morning. Could metalworkers make proper shells for eggs when they had to pry their eyelids open? Could mages cast the proper spells to contain the sorcerous energy in those eggs? You didn’t have to be Swemmel of Unkerlant to see how efficiency would go down.

“One more night,” Tibiano said when the sun crawled up over the mountains to the east.

“Aye, one more night,” Bembo agreed in tones as hollow as his wardmate’s. He yawned till his jaw creaked. A serving woman brought a cart full of trays into the room. The yawn turned into a groan. “Now we have to live through one more breakfast.”

After breakfast, a healer who looked even more exhausted than Bembo felt came thought the ward. He poked at Bembo’s leg, muttered a quick charm or two, and nodded. “You’ll do,” he said, before racing on to Tibiano’s cot. How many men’s recoveries was he overseeing? Could he do any of them justice?

Bembo was dozing-if he couldn’t sleep at night, he’d do it in the daytime- when a nurse said, “You’ve got a visitor.”

He opened his eyes. He hadn’t had many visitors since getting hurt, and this one.. “Saffa!” he exclaimed.

“Hello, Bembo,” the sketch artist said. “I thought I’d come by and see how you were.” She didn’t look good herself-not the way Bembo remembered her. She was pale and sallow and seemed weary unto death.

“I heard you had a baby,” Bembo said. Only after he’d spoken did he stop and think that might be part of why she looked so tired.

“Aye, a little boy,” she answered. “My sister is taking care of him right now.”

“Wouldn’t give me a tumble,” he complained. Self-pity and self-aggrandizement were never far from the surface with him. “Who is the papa, anyway?”

“He was fighting down in the Duchy of Grelz last I heard from him,” Saffa said. “A couple of months ago, letters stopped coming.”

“That doesn’t sound so good,” Bembo said, and then, belatedly remembering himself, “I’m sorry.”

“So am I. He was sweet.” For a moment, Saffa managed the nasty grin that had always provoked Bembo-one way or another. She added, “Unlike some people I could name.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. I love you, too,” Bembo said. “If I could get up, I’d give you a swat on that round fanny of yours. Did you come see me just so you could try and drive me crazy?”

She shook her head. Coppery curls flew back and forth. “I came to see you because this stinking war has taken a bite out of both of us.”

If the baby’s father were still around, I wouldn‘t want anything to do with you. Bembo translated that without effort. But it didn’t mean she was wrong. “This stinking war has taken a bite out of the whole stinking world.” He hesitated. “When I’m back on my feet, I’ll call on you, all right?”

“All right,” Saffa said. “I’ll tell you right now, though, I still may decide I’d sooner slap your face. Just so we understand each other.”

Bembo snorted. “Some understanding.” But he was nodding. Saffa without vinegar wasn’t Saffa. “Take care of yourself. Stay safe.”

“You, too,” she said, and then she was gone, leaving Bembo half wondering if he’d dreamt her whole visit.

An egg flew in from the east and hit a house in the village Garivald’s company had just taken away from the Algarvians. Chunks of the house flew out in all directions. A spinning board knocked down an Unkerlanter soldier standing only a couple of feet from Garivald. He started to get up, then clapped a hand to the small of his back and let out a yip of pain. The house fell in on itself and started to burn.

A Forthwegian couple in the middle of the street started howling. Garivald presumed it was their house. He couldn’t make out much of what they were saying. To a Grelzer like him, this east-Forthwegian dialect made even less sense than the variety of the language people around Eoforwic spoke. Not only were the sounds a little different, a lot of the words sounded nothing at all like their Unkerlanter equivalents. He wondered if they were