Out of the Darkness

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.