Out of the Darkness

by Harry Turtledove

  “Has he any idea how long this will take? Any idea at all?” Rathar tried again. He might have to try to head off Swemmel himself at some time in the future. One more war might be--probably would be--one more than Unkerlant could stand.

  “He speaks of years,” the king said. “Years! Why were the blunderers he leads not doing more before?”

  That was so breathtakingly unfair, Rathar didn’t bother responding to it. He stuck to what he could handle: “Will having the islanders know what they know, whatever it is, hurt our campaign against the Gongs?”

  “It should not.” Swemmel glowered down at Rathar. “It had better not, or you will answer for it.”

  “Of course, your Majesty,” Rathar said wearily. He tried to look on the bright side of things: “Kuusamo and Lagoas want Gyongyos beaten, too. And then the war--all of the war--will be over. Then we can go on about the business of putting the kingdom back on its feet again.”

  As far as he was concerned, that was the most important thing ahead for Unkerlant. King Swemmel gave an indifferent sniff. “We have enemies everywhere, Marshal,” he said. “We must make sure they cannot harm us.” Did he mean we as the people of Unkerlant or in the royal sense? Rathar couldn’t tell, not here. He wondered if Swemmel recognized the distinction. The king went on, “Everyone who stands in our way shall be cast down and destroyed. Enemies and traitors deserve destruction. If only Mezentio had lived!”

  If Mezentio had lived, he might still be alive, alive and wishing for death. Thinking about what Swemmel would have done to the King of Algarve made Rathar shiver, though the audience chamber was warm and stuffy. To keep from thinking of such things, he said, “We’ll soon be in position to begin the attack against Gyongyos.”

  “We know.” But Swemmel didn’t sound happy, even at the prospect of beating the last of his foes still in the field. A moment later, he explained why: “We spend our blood, as usual, and the cursed islanders reap the benefit. D’you think they could have invaded the Derlavaian mainland unless our soldiers were keeping the bulk of the Algarvian army busy in the west? Not likely!”

  “No, your Majesty, not likely,” Marshal Rathar agreed, “unless, that is, they used this new strong sorcery of theirs, whatever it is, against Mezentio’s men.”

  He did want to keep King Swemmel as closely connected to reality as he could. If Kuusamo and Lagoas had this dangerous new magical weapon, Swemmel needed to remember that, or he--and Unkerlant--would fall into danger. But the king’s muttering and eye-rolling alarmed Rathar. “They’re all against us, every cursed one of them,” Swemmel hissed. “But they’ll pay, too. Oh, how they’ll pay.”

  “We have to be careful, your Majesty,” Rathar said. “While they have it and we don’t, we’re vulnerable.”

  “We know we do, and so we shall,” King Swemmel replied. “We shall pay the butcher’s bill in Gyongyos on account of it. But the day of reckoning shall come. Never forget it for a moment, Marshal. Even against those who play at aiding us, we shall be avenged.”

  Rathar nodded. Only later did he wonder whether that warning was aimed at Kuusamo and Lagoas... or at him.

  Bembo knew he wouldn’t win a footrace any time soon. If a robber tried to run away from him, odds were the whoreson would get away. On the other hand, that had been true throughout his career as a constable. Long before he’d got a broken leg, he’d had a big belly.

  By the middle of summer, though, the leg had healed to the point where he could get around without canes. “I’m ready to go back to work,” he told Saffa.

  The sketch artist snorted. “Tell that to somebody who doesn’t know you,” she said. “You’re never ready to work, even when you’re there. Come on, Bembo--make me believe you’re not the laziest man who ever wore a constable’s uniform.”

  That stung, not least because it held so much truth. Bembo put the best face on it he could: “Other people look busier than I do because I get it right the first time and they have to run around chasing after themselves.”

  “Captain Sasso might believe that,” Saffa said. “A lot of times, officers will believe anything. Me, I know better.”

  Since Bembo knew better, too, he contented himself with sticking out his tongue at her. “Well, any which way, I’m going to find out. I never used to think I’d be glad to walk a beat in Tricarico. After everything that went on in the west, though, this will be a treat.” He wouldn’t have to worry about rounding up Kaunians here, or about a Forthwegian uprising, or about the Unkerlanters rolling east like a flood tide about to drown the world. Criminals? Wife-beaters? After all he’d been through in Gromheort and Eoforwic, he would take them in his still-limping stride.

  At the constabulary station, the sergeant at the front desk--a man only about half as wide as Sergeant Pesaro, who’d sat in that seat for years--nodded and said, “Aye, go on upstairs to Captain Sasso. He’s the one who makes you jump through the hoops.”

  “What hoops are there?” Bembo asked. “I got my leg broken fighting for my kingdom--not constabulary duty, fighting--and now I’ve got to jump through hoops?”

  “Go on.” The sergeant jerked a thumb at the stairway. He was no more disposed to argue than any other sergeant Bembo had ever known.

  “Ah, Bembo,” Sasso said when Bembo was admitted to his august presence. “How good to see you back healthy again.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Bembo replied, though he felt none too healthy. Climbing the stairs had been hard on his leg. He wasn’t about to admit that, though. Nodding to the officer, he went on, “I’m ready to get back to it.”

  Captain Sasso nodded. He wasn’t much older than Bembo; well-founded rumor said he’d gained his fancy rank by knowing to whom to say aye at any given moment. “I’m sure you are,” he replied. “But there are certain . . formalities you have to go through first.”

  The sergeant had spoken of jumping through hoops. Now Sasso talked about formalities. “Like what, sir?” Bembo asked cautiously.

  “You went west,” Sasso said.

  “Aye, sir, of course I did,” Bembo replied. Sasso was the one who’d sent him west, along with Pesaro and Oraste and several other constables.

  “We have orders from the occupying powers that no man who went west is to serve as a constable before he goes through an interrogation by one of their mages,” Captain Sasso said. “The penalties for going against that particular order are nastier than I really want to think about.”

  “What kind of interrogation? What for?” Bembo was honestly confused.

  Captain Sasso made a steeple of his fingertips and spelled things out for him: “The occupying powers don’t want anyone who was involved with whatever may have happened in the west with the Kaunians to do any kind of work that entails the trust of the kingdom. You have to understand, Bembo--it’s not up to me. I didn’t give the order. I’m only following it.”

  Bembo grunted. He’d only followed orders in the west. Were they going to punish him for it now? And how nasty would this interrogation prove? Every time he thought about that dreadful old Kuusaman wizard, his heart stuttered in his chest. That whoreson had been able to look all the way down to the bottom of his soul. He didn‘t spit in my face, Bembo reminded himself. Quite.

  He steadied himself. “Bring on the cursed wizards. I’m ready for ‘em.”

  Sasso blinked. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” Bembo answered. “Either they’ll let me back in or they won’t. If they don’t, how am I worse off than I would be if I didn’t try at all?”

  “A point,” the constabulary captain admitted. “You have nerve, don’t you?”

  “Sir, I have the balls of a burglar.” Bembo grinned at Sasso. “I nailed ‘em to the wall of my flat, and the burglar’s talked like this”--he raised his voice to a high falsetto squeak--”ever since.”

  Captain Sasso laughed. “All right. You’ll get the chance to prove it. Come along with me. I’ll take you to the mage. Do you know any classical Kaunian?”

 
“Only a little,” Bembo said. “I’m like most people--they tried to thrash it into me at school, and I forgot it as soon as I escaped.”

  “Escaped?” Sasso got up from his desk. “You’ve got a way with words, too. Thinking back, I remember that. How many of the reports you filed before the war were nothing but wind and air?” Before Bembo could answer, the captain shook his head. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Just come on.”

  “Where are we going?” Bembo asked. “If the stinking Kuusamans want to deal with constables, don’t they have a wizard here?”

  “Powers above, no!” Captain Sasso said. “We go to them. They don’t come to us--they won the fornicating war. But I don’t dare not go to them, powers below eat ‘em all. Like I said, if they find out I’ve hired anybody who isn’t checked ...” He let out a hiss to show what was likely to happen to him.

  “Ah,” Bembo said. “All right.” If we have to go somewhere else for this, that explains why Saffa didn’t know about it and warn me.

  The Kuusaman garrison--to which a few Jelgavan soldiers and officials were also attached--was headquartered not far from Tricarico’s central plaza. The Jelgavans acted as if Bembo and Sasso were beneath their notice. The Kuusamans simply dealt with them. Jelgava had lost its share of the war; Kuusamo had won its. Bembo wondered what that said about the two kingdoms. Actually, he didn’t wonder. He had a pretty good idea what it said--nothing good about King Donalitu’s realm.

  To his relief, the Kuusaman mage who questioned him turned out to speak fluent Algarvian. “So,” the fellow said. “You used to be a constable, and you want to be a constable again? And in between times you were . . where? Answer truthfully.” He made a couple of passes at Bembo. “I will know if you lie--and if you do, you will not be a constable again.”

  Bembo wondered whether to believe him. An Algarvian would not have phrased the warning so baldly. But Bembo had seen that Kuusamans didn’t indulge in flights of fancy, as his own countrymen delighted in doing. Besides which, he saw no point in lying here. “I was in Gromheort, and later in Eoforwic. I fought against the Forthwegian uprising there, and I was wounded when the Unkerlanters flung eggs into the place at the start of their big attack.”

  “I see,” the slant-eyed mage said neutrally. “This is all very interesting, but not very important.”

  “It is to me,” Bembo said. “It was my leg.”

  “Not very important to what we are talking about here,” the Kuusaman said. “What we are talking about here is your dealings with the Kaunians in these two cities and thereabouts. You had dealings with Kaunians in these two cities and thereabouts, did you not?”

  “Aye,” Bembo answered. He’d been a constable in the west. How could he have helped dealing with blonds?

  “All right, then.” The Kuusaman grudged him a nod. “Now we come down to it. Did you ever kill any Kaunians while you were on duty in these two cities and thereabouts?”

  “Aye,” Bembo said again.

  “Then what are you doing here wasting my time and yours?” the Kuusaman demanded, showing annoyance for the first time. “I shall have to speak to your captain. He knows the regulations, and knows them well.”

  “Will you listen to me?” Bembo said. “Let me tell you how it was, and powers below and your miserable spell both eat me if I lie.” He told the mage the tale of how he and Oraste had met the drunken ruin of a Kaunian mage sleeping in an overgrown park in Gromheort, and how the Kaunian hadn’t survived the encounter. “He was out after curfew, and he would have done something to us-- he tried to do something to us, which is why we blazed the old bugger. And what does your precious magecraft have to say about that?”

  “At first glance, it seems the truth. But I shall probe deeper.” The Kuusaman made more passes. He muttered in his own language. By the time he got done, he looked dissatisfied. “This is the truth--the truth as you remember it, at least.”

  If he asked a question like, Is that the only time you killed a Kaunian?--if he asked a question like that, Bembo would never be a constable again. To keep him from asking it, Bembo went on, “I don’t suppose you want to hear about the time I pulled two Kaunians right out of the old noble’s castle in Gromheort and let ‘em get away.”

  “Say on,” the Kuusaman mage told him. “Remember, though: if you lie, you will be permanently disqualified.”

  “Who said anything about lying?” Bembo said with what he hoped was a suitable show of indignation. He told the mage about spiriting Doldasai’s parents out of the castle the Algarvians used as their headquarters in Gromheort and uniting them with their daughter, finishing, “Go ahead and use your fancy spell. I’m not lying.” He struck a pose, as well as he could while sitting down.

  The Kuusaman mage made his passes. He muttered his charm. His eyebrows rose slightly. He made more passes. He muttered another charm, this one, Bembo thought, in classical Kaunian. Those black eyebrows rose again. “How interesting,” he said at last. “This does seem to be the truth. Will you now tell me you did it from the goodness of your heart?”

  “No,” Bembo said. “I did it on account of I thought I’d get a terrific piece if I managed it, and I did, too.” He’d never mentioned Doldasai to Saffa, not even when he was spilling his guts to her, and he never intended to, either.

  To his surprise, the Kuusaman turned red under his golden skin. Prissy whoreson, Bembo thought. “You are venal,” the mage said. “I suspect you took bribes in the form of money, too.” He might have accused Bembo of picking his nose and then sticking his finger in his mouth.

  But Bembo only nodded. “Of course I did.” Fearing the spell wasn’t what made him tell the truth there. To him--to most Algarvians--bribes were nothing more than grease to help make wheels turn smoothly and quietly.

  The mage looked almost as if he were about to be sick. “Disgustingly venal,” he muttered. “But that is not what I am searching for. Very well. I pronounce you fit to resume service as a constable.” He filled out forms as fast as he could. Plainly, he wanted Bembo out of his sight as fast as he could arrange it. He was too embarrassed, or perhaps too revolted, to probe much deeper.

  Bembo hadn’t thought things would work out just like that, but he had thought they would work out. He usually did. And, more often than not, he turned out to be right.

  Little by little, Vanai got used to living in Gromheort. Little by little, she got used to not living in fear. She needed a while to believe in her belly that no one would come through the streets shouting, “Kaunians, come forth!” The Algarvians were gone. They wouldn’t be back. A lot of them were dead. And the Forthwegians who’d bawled for Kaunian blood along with the redheads during the occupation were for the time being pretending they’d never done any such thing.

  Living in the same house with Ealstan’s mother and father helped Vanai get over the terror she’d known. It proved to her, day after quiet day, that Forthwegians could like her and treat her as a person regardless of her blood. Ealstan did, of course, but that was different. That was special. Elfryth and Hestan hadn’t fallen in love with her, though they certainly had with her daughter.

  Conberge often visited the house. The first time Vanai met Ealstan’s older sister, she stared intently at her, then asked, “Do I really look like that when I wear my Forthwegian mask?”

  “I should say you do,” Conberge answered, eyeing her with just as much curiosity. “We could be twins, I think.”

  “Oh, good!” Vanai exclaimed. “I’m so lucky, then!” That raised a blush from Conberge despite her swarthy Forthwegian complexion. Vanai meant it, too. She thought Conberge an outstandingly good-looking woman in the dark, buxom, strong-featured way of her people.

  “I’m prettier with her face than I am with my own,” she told Ealstan that night.

  “No, you’re not,” he answered, and kissed her. “You’re beautiful both ways.” He spoke with great conviction. He didn’t quite make Vanai believe him, but he did prove he loved her. She already knew that, of course,
but more proofs were always welcome. She did her best to show Ealstan it went both ways, too.

  As summer advanced, she and Conberge stopped looking just alike when she wore her sorcerous disguise, for her sister-in-law’s belly began to bulge, as her own had not so very long before. Conberge also grew even bustier than she had been, which Vanai thought almost too much of a good thing. She doubted whether Grimbald, Conberge’s husband, agreed.

  The two of them walked to the market square together one blistering afternoon. Vanai had Saxburh along. Conberge watched her niece. “I ought to carry around a little notebook,” she said, “so I’ll know, ‘All right, she does this when she’s that old, and then when she gets a little older she’ll do that instead.’ “

  Vanai rolled her eyes. “What she’s doing now is being a nuisance.” She’d brought along a carriage, but Saxburh pitched a fit every time she tried to put her into it. She’d just learned to walk, and walking was what she wanted to do. That meant her mother and her aunt had to match her pace, which annoyed Vanai but didn’t bother Saxburh at all.

  “It’s all right,” Conberge said. “I’m in no hurry.” She set a hand on her belly. “I feel so big and slow already, but I know I’m going to get a lot bigger. I’ll be the size of a behemoth by the time I finally have the baby, won’t I?”

  “No, not quite. But you’re right--you’ll think you are,” Vanai answered.

  A squad of Unkerlanter soldiers patrolled the market square. Vanai was finally used to men who shaved their faces, though the smooth-faced Unkerlanters had startled her the first few times she saw them. They didn’t give her cold chills, the way Algarvian troopers would have. For one thing, they didn’t despise her people in particular. For another, they didn’t leer the way the redheads did. When they stared around, it seemed much more like wonder at being in a big city. She couldn’t know, but she would have guessed they all came from villages far smaller than Oyngestun had ever been. And they all looked so young: she doubted any of them could have been above seventeen.