At last, Costache asked, “Do you want to see your daughter?”
What he wanted was a chance to start another child then and there. He knew he couldn’t have that. As naturally as he could, he looked down into the carriage. “What is her name?” he asked. He’d been able to write to his old address, to the house where Costache still lived, but he’d had no address of his own, drifting from one place to another. Till this moment, he hadn’t known whether his child was boy or girl.
“I called her Brindza, after your mother,” Costache answered.
Cornelu nodded. It was good. It was fitting. He wished the baby could have been named Eforiel, but that would have been wrong. The leviathan had still been living when she was born.
“And what would milady care for today?” the waiter asked. He might have been standing there for some time, waiting to be noticed. Had he not spoken up, he would have kept on waiting quite a while, too.
“Whatever my husband had there will be fine for me, too,” she answered, sitting down on the stool next to Cornelu’s. She sounded dazed, as if she didn’t want to think right now. Cornelu understood that; he felt dizzier, drunker, than if he’d swallowed a tun of ale. The waiter shrugged and went ofT to the back room.
Costache pointed a finger at Cornelu, as if in accusation. “I thought you were dead.”
“I was out to sea when the Algarvians came,” he answered. “They’d already taken the harbor when I got back.” He spoke in a low voice so the fishermen couldn’t overhear: “I didn’t want to surrender, so I took Eforiel over to Lagoas. I’ve been there ever since, along with the rest of the exiles, doing what we could to fight Mezentio.”
Now that Costache wasn’t in his arms anymore, wasn’t pressed against the flesh that had missed her so, he took a longer look into the carriage. The baby sleeping in there had a thin, short fuzz of reddish hair. “She looks like you,” Costache said softly.
“She looks like a baby,” Cornelu said. As far as he was concerned, all babies looked more or less alike--oh, maybe not Kuusamans or Zuwayzin, but the rest. And yet, even as that thought went through his mind, he was trying to find his nose, his chin, on those small smooth features.
The waiter set down Costache’s supper. If he found anything remarkable about a father staring at a daughter more than a year old as if he’d never seen her before, he kept it to himself. Costache ate absently. She kept staring from Cornelu to Brindza and back again, as if reconnecting the two of them in her mind.
“How have you been?” Cornelu asked her.
“Tired,” she answered at once. “If you have a baby, you’re tired. You can’t be anything else. And times have been hard. No pay, no pension, no money to hire a nurse to take care of Brindza so I could make money on my own.” She shook her head. “Tired,” she repeated.
“I wish I could have let you know sooner that I was all right,” Cornelu said. “Some . . . friends of mine were finally able to post that note.” He wondered if the Lagoan raiders were still on the island. He had no way to know, not now.
“I almost fell over in a faint when I recognized your script,” Costache said. “And then the other notes started.”
“They wouldn’t have, but I got stranded here.” Cornelu shook his head. “Poor Eforiel took all the energy from an egg.”
“Ah, too bad.” Costache also shook her head. She sounded sad. But she did not understand, not really. No one but another leviathan-rider could have understood. Cornelu had been more intimate with his wife, but not a great deal.
Intimate with his wife ... It had been so long. He took a last swig from the second mug of ale. “Can we go home now?” he asked, confident he knew the answer.
But, to his astonished chagrin, Costache shook her head again. “I dare not bring you home,” she said. “I have three Algarvian officers billeted on me. They have been correct in every way,” she added hastily, “but if you came there, you’d go into a captives’ camp the instant you walked through the door.”
“Three Algarvian officers?” Cornelu echoed in tones that couldn’t mean anything but, Three men I have to kill. He thought pain and outrage would choke him. Clapping a hand to his forehead, he exclaimed, “Has it come to this, then? Do I have to make an assignation to sleep with my own wife?” He barely remembered to keep his voice too low for the fishermen to hear him.
“Aye, I fear it has come to that, and even assignations won’t be easy,” Costache answered. Cornelu felt the veins of his neck tighten with fury: fury at the Algarvians, fury at her, fury at everything that kept him from taking what he’d wanted so much for so very long. Before he could bellow like a bull, Brindza woke up and started to cry. Costache gave Cornelu a weary smile. “And here you have one of the reasons assignations won’t be easy.” She scooped the baby out of the carriage.
Cornelu stared at his daughter. He did his best not to see her only as an obstacle standing between him and taking Costache to bed. She looked back at him out of eyes that might have been her mother’s. With some effort, he smiled. She turned her face back toward Costache, as if to ask, Who is this person? What she did say was, “Mama?”
“She’s shy with strangers right now,” Costache said. “People say they all are at this age.”
I am not a stranger! Cornelu wanted to shout. I am her father! That was true, but Brindza had no way of knowing it. A new thought cut him like a dagger from out of the night: I wonder if she’s shy with the Algarvians living, in my house.
“I’d better go,” Costache said. “They will be wondering where I am at this hour.” She leaned forward and brushed Cornel us lips with her own. “Keep writing to me. We’ll meet again as soon as we can.” 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 contr
ol 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?”
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 Forthwegian soldiers. “Go through the curtains one man at a time, to keep light from spilling out.”
Inside, the barracks were as bad as Bembo had expected. After a day spent traveling across northern Algarve, he didn’t care. He hurried to a pallet, set his pack under his head in lieu of a pillow (he labored under no delusions about his fellow constables, who were bound to have some light-fingered souls among them), and went to sleep.
Next morning, glum-looking Forthwegians served up bread and olive oil and harsh red wine. Another Algarvian army officer came in and distributed maps of Gromheort to those constables who would patrol it. “Things are prett
y quiet,” he told the newcomers. “Just keep ‘em that way and everything will be fine.” He offered no suggestions on how to achieve that laudable end.
Without enough breakfast to suit him, without a bath, without really knowing his way around, Bembo was thrust out onto the streets of Gromheort. Forth-wegians in long tunics glared at him or tried to pretend he didn’t exist. Kaunians got out of his way in a hurry. That, at least, felt right and proper.
No one did anything in the least untoward. All the same, he walked far more warily than he would have back in Tricarico. There, only the rare desperate fool would take on a constable. Here, in a sullen conquered kingdom, who could say? He didn’t want to find out the hard way.
At midmorning, feeling peckish, he stepped into an eatery and demanded an omelette. The proprietor made as if he didn’t understand Algarvian. Bembo’s gut told him the fellow was bluffing. He hefted his club and growled--and got his omelette. He didn’t care for the cheese the Forthwegian used, but it wasn’t too bad. Patting his belly, he walked out.
“You pay!” the proprietor exclaimed--he knew some Algarvian, all right.
Bembo only laughed. If he wouldn’t have paid for a meal back in Tricarico--and he wouldn’t--he was cursed if he’d do it here in a land Algarve had won by the sword. What could the Forthwegian do if he didn’t? Not a thing. He snapped his fingers and went on his way.
In summer, a cold bath looked better to Leofsig than at other seasons of the year. After a day of building roads in the sun, he took himself to Gromheort’s public baths to wash off the sweat and dirt before he went home. He paid the attendant at the door a copper, hung his tunic on a peg in the antechamber, and, naked, hurried toward the pools and plunges beyond. He tested the water of what had been the warm plunge with a toe.
“Not too bad,” said an older man already in there. “Could be chillier than this and feel good on a day like today.”
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