Pesaro only smiled. After a moment, Bembo realized it was a foolish question. Pesaro was fat and slow and a long way from young. If he didn’t know things, what good was he? He thumped Bembo on the shoulder. “Go on. Go home. Get ready. We’re stuck with it. If you’re not on the caravan car with me tomorrow, you’re a deserter during wartime.” He sliced a thumb across his throat.
Thus encouraged, Bembo went back to his flat. Packing didn’t take long, not with the limits Captain Sasso had imposed. He drank his dinner. For good measure, he drank his supper, too. With nothing better to do, he went to bed early.
He woke with a pounding head and a taste in his mouth like the river downstream from the sewage works. A glass of wine helped dull both complaints. He still felt lethargic and abused, but he’d felt that way before. Shouldering the few belongings he could bring, he made for the depot.
He got there at the same time as his frequent partner, Oraste. Pesaro checked off both their names. Oraste was quiet and looked somewhat the worse for wear, too. Maybe he’d spent his last night in Tricarico the same way Bembo had.
Bembo was climbing up into the caravan car when someone--a woman--called, “Wait!” Saffa came running up. She threw herself into his arms and gave him a kiss that made him forget his headache. Then she slipped away and said, “There! Is that because I’m sorry you’re going or because I’m glad? You’ll never know.” She headed back toward the constabulary station, putting everything she had into her walk.
“Don’t stand there gaping with your tongue hanging out,” Pesaro told Bembo. “Go on; get aboard.” Bembo didn’t move till Saffa was out of sight. Then, as if a spell were broken, he shook himself and obeyed.
But for the constables from Tricarico, the ley-line caravan carried no passengers. As soon as the last man climbed into the car--with curses from Pesaro for being the last--the caravan began its long glide west. The Bradano Mountains sank below the horizon. Wheatfields, meadows with cattle and sheep grazing in them, vineyards, and groves of almonds and olives and citrus fruit slid past outside the windows. Before long, Bembo got into a dice game and stopped worrying about the scenery.
Just after noon, the caravan stopped in a medium-sized town along the ley line. Half a dozen irate-looking men in constable’s uniform filed aboard. “Hello!” Bembo said. “Misery loves company, looks like.”
The caravan stopped several times during the afternoon. At each stop, another contingent of disgruntled constables got on. By the time the caravan began to near what had been the Forthwegian border, all the cars were full. Bembo doubted there was a happy man in any of them.
Pesaro pointed out the window. “Look at all the behemoths feeding there. And we saw even more unicorns a little while ago.”
“Behemoths. Unicorns. Constables.” Bembo shrugged. “All animals that get ridden off to war whether they want to or not.”
At what had been the border with Forthweg, the caravan halted again. By then, lamps--dim ones, in case the Unkerlanters managed to sneak a few dragons through--were shining in every car. An Algarvian army officer bounded up into the car in which Bembo rode. “On behalf of his Majesty, King Mezentio, I thank you for entering his service,” he said. “With you to patrol the towns and villages of Forthweg, we can use the soldiers who were on garrison duty as soldiers should be used in the fighting. If constables are constables, then soldiers can be soldiers.”
That sounded good. It even impressed Bembo--till he remembered that the officer was as far behind the lines as he was. “Where in blazes are we bound, anyway?” he asked. He saw no need to treat the officer as he would have a superior in his service, in spite of the fellow’s fancy talk.
A scowl said the officer realized that, too. But he answered mildly enough: “Constables in this car will get off at Gromheort, not far from here.” He coughed. “Some of them may be fortunate they are replacing the army there and not elsewhere. On the other hand, army discipline might improve them.”
Bembo did not rise to that. One narrow escape was enough. The caravan slid along the ley line toward Gromheort. He tried to remember if he’d ever heard of the place. He didn’t think so. It would have been under Algarvian rule before the Six Years’ War, so it might not prove too bad, but he wouldn’t have bet more than a copper on that.
Nor did his first glimpse, by moonlight, send him into raptures. The depot was battered, and about one building in four between it and the barracks where the constables would spend the night had been wrecked. “The Forthwegians fought hard here,” explained the officer, who guided them to the barracks.
“Why haven’t they repaired it since?” Bembo asked, safely anonymous in the darkness.
“They have,” the army officer answered. “If you think it’s bad now, you should have seen it just after we took it.” He pointed ahead, to a low, squat building that once must have housed cattle or
