“If I slip and fall, I’m liable to break my ankle,” the Algarvian constable complained.
“Maybe you’ll break your neck instead,” Oraste said helpfully. “That would make you shut up, anyhow.”
“Both of you can shut up,” Sergeant Pesaro growled. “We have a job to do, and we’re going to do it, that’s all. End of story.” He tramped along, full of determination, his big belly bouncing ahead of him at every stride, and set a good pace for the squad of constables he led.
In a low voice, Bembo told Oraste, “I’ve got silver that says he’ll be done in long before we get to this Oyngestun place.”
“I know you’re a fool,” the other constable answered, “but I didn’t know you thought I was one, too. I’m not stupid enough to throw my money away on a bet like that.”
They tramped past fields and almond and olive groves and little stands of woods. Here and there, Bembo saw Forthwegians and Kaunians, sometimes in small groups but more often alone, examining the ground and occasionally digging. “What are they doing?” he asked.
“Gathering mushrooms.” Pesaro rolled his eyes. “They eat them.”
“That’s disgusting.” Bembo stuck out his tongue and made a horrible face. None of the other constables argued with him. After a moment, he added, “It’s liable to be dangerous, too--to us, I mean. They could be sneaking around doing anything at all while they’re pretending to go after mushrooms.”
Pesaro nodded, then shrugged. “I know, but what can you do? The soldiers say these whoresons’d revolt if we tried to keep ‘em inside their towns this time of year. We’re stuck with a little trouble--I hope it’s a little trouble--but we stay out of big trouble. And we can’t afford big trouble here right now. We’ve got too much farther west.”
“Ah.” Trades like that made sense to Bembo. They were part of a constable’s life. “Maybe we ought to make ‘em pay to go out and hunt the cursed things, the way you get a free one from a floozy now and then so you won’t haul her in.”
Some sergeant would have pitched a fit to hear something like that. Pesaro only nodded again. “Not a half bad idea. Maybe we ought to pass it on up the line. Anything we can squeeze out of this miserable place puts us that much further ahead of the game.” He walked on for another few paces, then took off his hat and wiped at his sweaty forehead with his sleeve. “Long, miserable march.” Bembo gave Oraste an I-told-you-so look. Oraste ignored him. Pesaro went on, “This big, heavy stick doesn’t make things any easier, either.”
He was right about that. Bembo had long since got sick and tired of the army-style stick he’d been issued for this assignment. Carrying it made his hand tired and his shoulder ache. Carrying it also worried him. If his superiors didn’t think a short, stubby constabulary stick would be enough to keep him safe in Oyngestun, how much trouble was he liable to find there?
Pesaro, who had been slumping like suet on a hot summer day as the constables neared the village, rallied just before they got into it. “Straighten up, there,” he barked at his men. “We’re not going to let these yokels catch us looking like something the cat dragged in. Show some spunk, or you’ll be sorry.”
Bembo was already sorry, from the feet up. Nevertheless, he and his comrades did their best to enter Oyngestun with proper Algarvian swagger, shoulders back, heads up, faces arrogant. If they weren’t the masters of all they surveyed, they acted as if they were. As with any magic, appearance could easily be made into reality.
Oyngestun’s Forthwegians did their best to pretend the newly arrived constables did not exist. Most of the village’s Kaunians stayed behind closed doors. That would not do. Pesaro shouted for whatever Algarvian constables were already in Oyngestun. All three of them tumbled out. Pesaro handed the most senior one a scroll with his orders inscribed on it. After the fellow had read it and nodded, Pesaro said, “Turn out the Kaunians--all of ‘em--in the village square. We’ll help.”
“Aye,” the constable quartered in Oyngestun said. As he handed Pesaro’s orders back to him, he added, “I see what you’re doing, but I don’t see why.”
“You want to know the truth, I don’t see why, either,” Pesaro answered. “But they pay me on account of what I do, not on account of why I do it. Come on, let’s get moving. The sooner we’re done, the sooner we can get out of this place and leave it to you and the cobwebs.”
“Heh,” the senior-most constable in Oyngestun said. He couldn’t very well quarrel with Pesaro, who outranked him and was following orders to boot. Instead, he yelled at his own men while Pesaro instructed the squad who’d come with him from Gromheort.
The instructions were simple. They went through Oyngestun, especially the Kaunian section on the west side of the village, shouting, “Kaunians, come forth!” in classical Kaunian, in Forthwegian, and in Algarvian, depending on what they knew. “Come forth to the village square!”
