Out of the Darkness

“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.”