Oraste had no doubts, for which Bembo envied him. Oraste seldom had doubts about anything. Like a hound, like a hawk, the veteran constable brought in whatever his superiors aimed him at. He said, “Weren’t for the cursed Kaunians here and in Valmiera and Jelgava, we wouldn’t have a war now. Far as I’m concerned, the whoresons deserve whatever happens to ‘em. Sneaks and sluts, the lot or em.
“Aye,” Bembo said abstractedly, but he was still watching that nice-looking blond and her little boy.
Another Forthwegian passerby jeered at the Kaunians on the way to the caravan station. Maybe nine out often people in the shattered Kingdom of Forthweg were actually of Forthwegian blood, the tenth being the blonds who’d dwelt in this part of the world since the long-vanished days of the Kaunian Empire. As Oraste had said, most of the Forthwegians had scant use for their trousered neighbors.
“Keep moving,” Sergeant Pesaro called again. “You’d better keep moving, if you know what’s good for you. This isn’t stinking Eoforwic, you know. Not a single bloody soul in these parts believes your lies.” Again, Evodio translated his words into classical Kaunian: the Empire’s language had changed very little here.
Like almost all Algarvians, like almost everyone in the west of Derlavai, Bembo had studied classical Kaunian in school. Like most people, he’d forgotten just about all of it as soon as he didn’t need it any more. Evodio was an exception. He didn’t look scholarly, he looked almost as much like a bruiser as Oraste did.
One of the Kaunians spoke in his own tongue. Evodio translated what he said for Pesaro: “He asks why you say they’re lies. Everyone knows they’re true. You must know it, too, he says.”
“I don’t care what he says,” Pesaro growled. “Anybody who riots on account of a pack of lies is fair game, and
Only rumors about the riots in Eoforwic had drifted east to Gromheort. Some Kaunians seemed to have escaped--or to have been released by Unkerlanter raiders; the rumors weren’t clear on that--from the labor camps the Algarvians had set up for them near the western front. They claimed their folk were being used not for labor but for their life energy, with the Algarvians slaying them so mages could use that energy to power great sorceries against King Swemmel’s soldiers.
Bembo was pretty sure those claims were true, but most of the time did his resolute best not to think about it. “Even Forthwegians went up in smoke when they heard what we were up to out in the west,” he said--very quietly--to Oraste.
“Always a few hotheads,” Oraste answered with a fine, indifferent Algarvian shrug. “We’re back in the saddle in Eoforwic, and that’s what counts.” No, he didn’t waste time on doubts. Instead, he pointed ahead. “Almost there.”
Gromheort’s ley-line caravan depot, a massive pile of gray stone not far from the count’s palace, had taken considerable damage when the Algarvians seized the city. Nobody’d bothered repairing it since; so long as the ley lines themselves were clear of rubble, everything else could wait till victory finally came. Pesaro said, “Step it up.” Evodio translated for the Kaunians’ benefit--though that wasn’t really the right word.
Inside the depot, Bembo’s boots made echoes kick back from the walls as he strode across the marble floor. No lamps burned, leaving the depot a dank and gloomy place. The roof leaked. It had rained a couple of days before--Gromheort rarely got snow--and little puddles dotted the floor. A cold falling drop got Bembo in the back of the neck. He cursed and wiped it away with his hand.
An Algarvian military policeman carrying a clipboard came up to Pesaro. “How many of these blond whoresons have you got?” he asked.
“Fifty,” the constabulary sergeant answered. “That was the quota they gave me, and I deliver.” He puffed out his chest, but, however much he puffed it, it would never reach out past his protruding belly.
“Fine,” the other Algarvian said, obviously not impressed. He studied his clipboard, then scribbled something on it. “Fifty, eh? All right, take ‘em over to platform twelve and load ‘em onto the caravan there. Twelve, you hear?”
“I’m not deaf,” Pesaro said with dignity. He would have scorched a constable who sassed him, but had to be more careful around soldiers. Since he couldn’t tell the military policeman off, he shouted instead at the Kaunians the squad had rounded up: “Come on, you lousy buggers! Get moving! Platform twelve, the man said!”
“Likes to hear himself make noise, doesn’t he?” Oraste said under his breath.
“You just noticed?” Bembo answered, and the other constable chuckled. But then, more charitably, Bembo added, “Well, who doesn’t?” He knew he did, and knew very few Algarvians who didn’t. The Forthwegians and Kaunians he’d met since coming to Gromheort seemed less given to display. Sometimes, he just thought that made them dull. Others, though, he got suspicious--what were they hiding?
