Darkness Descending

Brindza up on one shoulder, she pushed the carriage with the other, as she’d obviously had practice doing. She used the carriage to butt the door open. It closed behind her. She was gone. Cornelu sat by himself in the eatery, more alone in his hometown than he had been in exile in Setubal.

As soon as Bembo walked into the constabulary station in Tricarico, Sergeant Pesaro’s face warned him something was wrong. The plump Algarvian constable searched his conscience like a man ransacking his belt pouch for spare change. Rather to his surprise, he found nothing.

But, no matter how innocent he was, or thought he was, Pesaro--who was much rounder than he--pointed a fleshy finger at him and growled, “You had to be so cursed smart, didn’t you?”

“What? When?” Bembo asked. “Usually you call me an idiot.” The only time he could remember being smart lately was catching Kaunians with their hair dyed. He hadn’t got in trouble for that; he’d earned a commendation. Even pretty little Saffa had liked him--for a bit.

“You are an idiot,” Pesaro said. “Even when you’re smart, you’re an idiot.”

“Tell me what you’re talking about, anyhow,” Bembo said, starting to get angry now. “I’d like to know what kind of idiot I am.”

Pesaro shook his head. His flabby jowls wobbled. “I’ll leave it to Captain Sasso. No patrols today, except for a few lucky bastards. The rest of us have to assemble at midmorning. Then you’ll find out.”

Wondering if Sasso was going to order him executed before the assembled constables, Bembo tried to pry more out of the sergeant but had no luck. Cursing under his breath, he went back to the offices to see if anyone there knew and would talk. Saffa sneered at him and tossed her fine head of fiery red hair when he walked in. He ignored her, which no doubt left her disappointed. He ended up disappointed, too; if anyone did know what Sasso would say, he wouldn’t admit it.

Nothing to do but wait and worry and fume till midmorning. Then, along with the rest of the constables, Bembo trooped out to the scruffy lawn in back of the station. The summer sun beat down on him. Sweat rolled down his face and started to darken his tunic. Stewing in my own juices, he thought.

Captain Sasso strutted up to the front of the assembled men. Without preamble, he announced, “King Mezentio is taking a contingent from every constabulary force in Algarve into his service, to control captives, to round up criminals and undesirables in the newly conquered lands, and to free up more of our soldiers for the fight against the kingdom’s foes.”

A low murmur ran through the constables. Pesaro mouthed, Now do you remember? at Bembo, and Bembo had to nod. He’d seen the need a year before the authorities had, but his opinion of the authorities’ cleverness was low.

Sasso hadn’t finished. “From Tricarico, the following constables have been selected for the aforementioned service. . . .” He pulled a list from a breast pocket and began reading names. Pesaro’s was on it, which explained why he was irate. And then, a moment later, Bembo heard his own name. Sasso went through the whole list, then continued, “Men named here will report in uniform to the caravan depot at noon tomorrow for transportation to your new assignment. Bring all necessary constabulary gear, but no more personal effects than will fit into your belt pouches and one small pack. I know you will acquit Tricarico well, men.” He spun on his heel and marched away without so much as calling for questions.

“Tomorrow?” Bembo howled. His was far from the only cry of amazement and dismay. He raised his hands to the uncaring sky. “How can we go tomorrow? Powers above, how can we go at all?”

“Southern Unkerlant is lovely in the wintertime,” said a constable who was staying in Tricarico. He kissed his fingertips. “So white! So fair! And winter there doesn’t last more than three-fourths of the year.”

“Your wife is lovely in a whorehouse bed,” Bembo snarled. He kissed his fingertips, too. “So white! So fair! And your daughter the same. They both charge more than they’re worth, though.”

With a curse, the other constable hurled himself at Bembo. Normally no braver than he had to be, Bembo was ready to brawl. Before either of them could throw more than a punch or two, though, their comrades got between them. “When you come home, wretch, our friends will settle where we can meet,” the other constable said.

“You haven’t got any friends,” Bembo retorted. “Ask your wife to help. She has dozens. Hundreds.”

Sergeant Pesaro shoved Bembo away before the fight could flare again. “Let it go,” he said. “Getting in trouble won’t keep you off the caravan.” Bembo hadn’t thought of that and wished he had. Pesaro went on, “We aren’t going to Unkerlant, anyhow. Some other poor whoresons get stuck with that. We’re heading for Forthweg. The weather will be better, anyhow.”

“Huzzah,” Bembo said sourly. He cocked his head to one side. “How do you know where we’re going?”