having been a beauty at twenty. Nothing in Gromheort was very prepossessing these days. Bembo said, “I hate this place.”
Oraste yawned in his face. “So what? There are plenty of places where you’d do a lot more than hate ‘em. Sulingen, for instance. Set Gromheort next to Sulingen and it doesn’t look so bad, you know that?”
“Set anything next to Sulingen and it doesn’t look so bad,” Bembo said with a shudder. “That doesn’t make Gromheort look good. Nothing would make Gromheort look good.”
“Doesn’t seem like anything will make you quit bellyaching, either, does it?” Oraste said.
“Oh, shut up,” Bembo snarled, nettled enough to forget that Oraste wouldn’t have a lot of trouble breaking him in two. A Forthwegian-a middle-aged man, his neat beard going gray-was walking along across the street with his head turned toward the constables. “What’s so fornicating funny?” Bembo yelled at him.
“Nothing in Gromheort is funny these days,” the Forthwegian answered in Algarvian almost as fluent as the constable’s.
Bembo set hands on hips and sent Oraste a triumphant look. “There? You see? Even a Forthwegian can tell.”
The other constable gestured dismissively. “What does he know about it? He’s not going to want to give us a bouquet any which way.” He glowered at the Forthwegian. “What in blazes
Bembo expected the local to duck his head and make himself scarce. That was what he would have done in the face of a couple of occupiers. It was what most sensible Forthwegians did. And, indeed, the fellow started to do just that.
But then, as if arguing with himself, he shook his head and strode across the cobbles toward Bembo and Oraste. “Do you want me to tell you what I know, gentlemen? I can do that, if you care to listen.”
“Is he nuts?” Oraste whispered to Bembo.
“I don’t know,” Bembo whispered back. The Forthwegian wasn’t acting strange, except for being willing to speak his mind. But, in Gromheort, that was pretty strange in and of itself. Bembo let his right hand fall to the stick he wore on his belt. He raised his voice a little. “That’s close enough, pal.”
The Forthwegian not only stopped, he bowed, almost as if he were an Algarvian himself. He laughed, and his laugh was harsh and bitter. “I am not a dangerous madman. It is a tempting role, but not one I can play. There are times I wish I could, believe you me.”
That was fancy talk. It did nothing for Oraste. He rumbled, “Come to the point or get lost.”
With another bow, the Forthwegian said, “I shall. My nephew beat my son to death with a chair, and nobody did a thing about it. Nobody will do a thing about it. I have no chance of getting anybody to do anything about it, either. Should I think all is well in Gromheort?”
His tunic was pretty clean and pretty stylish-not that Bembo thought the knee-length tunics Forthwegian men wore had much in the way of style. He spoke like an educated man. He had nerve and to spare-that he was speaking so openly to Algarvians proved that. With money, education, and nerve. . “Why can’t you get anybody to do anything about it?” Bembo asked in honest bewilderment.
“Why?” the Forthwegian said. “I’ll tell you why, by the powers above. Because my nephew, may the powers below eat him, was on leave from Plegmund’s Brigade when he did it. Have you any more questions, sir?”
“Oh, you’re that son of a whore,” Oraste said. “I heard about you.” Bembo nodded; he’d heard about this fellow, too. Oraste shrugged. “No, you can’t do anything about that. Go on, get lost.” The words stayed gruff. The tone, now, wasn’t. Had it come from another man, Bembo might even have called it sympathetic. From Oraste, that was hard to imagine.
“I didn’t expect you to do anything,” the Forthwegian answered. “But you asked why nothing was funny. Now I have told you. Good day.” With another bow, he strode off.
“Poor bugger,” Bembo said. “Once you’re in Plegmund’s Brigade, you can do whatever you bloody well please, as long as you don’t do it to an Algarvian.”
“That’s the truth, and that’s the way it ought to be, too,” Oraste said. “But it’s not how that fellow would see things-I can see that.” He shrugged. “Nobody ever said life was fair. Come on.”
On they went. When they turned a corner, Bembo’s gaze fell on a man walking along with the hood to his long tunic pulled up over the top of his head. On a warm summer’s day, that drew the constable’s eye almost as readily as a pretty girl would have. The features under that hood didn’t look particularly Forthwegian: fair skin, straight nose. And then Bembo realized those features did look familiar. “Powers above!” he exclaimed. “It’s that old Kaunian from Oyngestun.”
“What is?” Oraste asked. Bembo pointed. The other constable peered, then nodded. “Well, you’re right for once. He knows he’s not supposed to be out here, too. Now he’s fair game.”
“He sure is.” Bembo raised his voice. “Hold it right there! Aye, you, you ugly old Kaunian sack of manure!”
The old man-Brivibas, that was his name-looked as if he was thinking of bolting. Then his shoulders slumped; he must have realized that was a mistake all too likely to prove fatal. Instead, he turned toward Bembo and Oraste with a curious sort of fatalism. “Very well. You have me. Do your worst.”
Maybe he said something like that in the hope of softening the constables’ hearts. It might have worked with Bembo: not likely, but it might have. With Oraste, such an invitation was just asking for trouble.
Bembo tried to head off his colleague, though he couldn’t really have said why: he had no great use for Kaunians. “All right, what sort of excuse are you going to give us for sneaking out of your district this time?” he demanded of the old man.
“No excuse, only the truth: I am still trying to learn what has become of my granddaughter,” Brivibas answered.
“Not good enough, old man,” Oraste said, and pulled his bludgeon free. The Kaunian bowed his head, waiting.
“Hang on a minute,” Bembo told Oraste, who looked at him as if he were out of his mind. To Brivibas, Bembo said, “Why do you think she’s here? I mean, here in this part of town in particular?” If the Kaunian didn’t have a good answer, nothing Bembo could say would keep Oraste from having his sport.
Brivibas said, “I believe she ran off with a Forthwegian youth named Ealstan, who lives somewhere along this street.”
“I believe you’re a fool,” Bembo said. If the girl was living with a Forthwegian, she was bound to be better off than any of the Kaunians jammed into their crowded district. Nobody would throw her into a caravan car and send her west, or maybe east, to be sacrificed, either. Was the old fool too blind to see that?
To the constable’s surprise, tears glinted in Brivibas’ eyes. “She is all I have in the world. Do you wonder that I want to know what has become of her?”
“Sometimes you’re better off not knowing,” Bembo answered.
Brivibas stared at him as if he’d just declared the world was flat or there was no such thing as magecraft. “Knowledge is always preferable to ignorance,” he declared.
“Well, pal, here’s some knowledge you didn’t have before,” Oraste said, and hit Brivibas in the ribs with his club. The old Kaunian groaned and folded up like a concertina. Oraste hit him again. He went to one knee. Oraste hit him once more, then seemed to lose interest. “You understand now?” he barked.
“Aye,” Brivibas said, doing his best not to let his pain show.
“We catch you around here again, the mages’ll never get the chance to sacrifice you,” Oraste went on. “You understand
“Aye,” Brivibas said again.
Oraste kicked him, not so hard as he might have. “Get out of here, then.” It wasn’t mercy, but was about as close as he came.
“Cursed old idiot,” Bembo said as the Kaunian staggered away. “You watch, you wait-sooner or later he’s going to come out once too often. Then he’ll either get blazed or get stomped or get shipped west, depending on who catches him and how much he frosts people. And it’ll be his own stupid fault, too.” Blaming Brivibas meant he didn’t even have to think about blaming Algarve for the Kaunian’s fate.
Oraste didn’t worry about such things. All he said was, “Good riddance.” Then his eyes, green as a panther’s, narrowed. “You know, I wonder if the old sod’s somehow connected to that other fellow we were talking with-the mouthy Forthwegian, I mean.”
