Out of the Darkness d-6

by Harry Turtledove

  Fernao laughed. “That is because of the company I keep. My fiancee is from Kajaani.”

  “I see. I see.” Valamo laughed, too. “Aye, that makes sense.” To Talsu, he said, “You see, here is another foreigner who has learned our tongue. You can do it, too.”

  “I hope so,” Talsu said. He asked Fernao, “How long did it take you to feel comfortable speaking Kuusaman every day?”

  “Somewhere between one year and two,” Fernao answered. “At first, I would have to use classical Kaunian for words I did not know in Kuusaman. And I should warn you that you may not learn as fast as I did, for I am good with languages.”

  “But he is also a younger man than you,” Valamo said. “He has time to learn.”

  “I am no scholar,” Talsu said, “but I am doing my best.”

  “What more can a man do?” the Kuusaman tailor responded. “Now, do your best to measure the gentleman.”

  “One moment,” Fernao said. “First, a part in four off a price of …?”

  The haggle quickly went from classical Kaunian into Kuusaman. Talsu knew his numbers, so he could follow pieces of it. He did his best to pick up other words from context. He thought he learned the term for swindler, which struck him as a useful thing to know. But the Kuusaman tailor and the Lagoan didn’t start screaming at each other, even if they did throw insults around. As Talsu had seen, Algarvians got-or at least acted-much more excited in a dicker.

  “Bargain,” Valamo said at last, and stuck out a hand. Fernao took it. To Talsu, Valamo said, “What are you standing there for? Get to work!” He bared his teeth in a smile to show he meant it for a joke, or at least some of a joke.

  Talsu took out the tape measure. “Now I will measure you. If you put your tunic on this hanger, sir, so I can get the most accurate measurements…”

  In Valmieran, Fernao said, “I am not used to having people as tall as I am around me here in Kuusamo.”

  “I understand that,” Talsu answered in Jelgavan. “Children here often think I am something very strange.”

  “I have had that happen, too,” Fernao said. “At least they would not suspect you of being an Algarvian.”

  “Well, no,” Talsu said. “Raise your arm, if you please, sir. I need another measurement.” When he was through, he nodded to the Lagoan. “That will be all for now. I expect I can have your suit ready for you in a week or so.”

  “Good enough,” Fernao said. “Thank you very much.” He reclaimed his tunic, donned it again, and left the shop.

  “That was a nice bit of business he just brought us, even with the discount,” Valamo said.

  “So it was,” Talsu said. “Doing it will be a pleasure.”

  “A man should enjoy his work,” the Kuusaman tailor agreed. “A man should also make money at his work. The Lagoan gentleman understood that. You should, too.”

  “If I have to choose between money and friendship, I know what my choice will be,” Talsu said. “If he is going to wed the woman who helped me escape from that dungeon, I owe him everything I can give him.”

  “You owe him your best work. He owes you a fair price,” Valamo said. “He will pay one. Now you have to do your best for him.”

  “I intend to,” Talsu said.

  “Good. Before long, you will be working for yourself, in your own shop. Your labor is all you have. Make it as good as you know how, but do not give very much of it away, or you will not eat.”

  “Good advice,” Talsu said. “Let me see the patterns for the style he picked out, please.” Valamo passed him the book. He’d never tried anything so complicated, not on his own, but he thought he could do it. He went into the back of the shop to see exactly what fabric he had available, then settled down and got to work.

  Bembo hadn’t wanted to come back to duty on night patrol, but he didn’t dare complain. From Captain Sasso’s point of view, he supposed putting him here on the schedule made sense. Sasso already had a solid rotation of constables. Nobody much cared to go out at night, so why not give the newcomer that shift?

  I’ll tell you why not, Bembo thought. If I trip over a high cobblestone I didn’t see in the dark and break my leg again, I’ll be very annoyed. But he couldn’t say that to Sasso, for fear the captain would tell him he couldn’t do the job.

  Six years had gone by, near enough, since he’d had the night shift when the war was new. Things had been pretty quiet then, and were pretty quiet now, for the same reason: a curfew was in force. Kuusaman patrols also tramped the streets. Bembo had had to show them his badge once already tonight. He didn’t care for that, but liked the idea of getting blazed even less.

  Tricarico wasn’t black now, as it had been when the Derlavaian War was new. No enemy dragons flew overhead, ready to drop eggs on the city. But more than a few enemy dragons now ate their stupid heads off on Algarvian territory. If Bembo’s people ever thought of rising up against their occupiers. . He shuddered. The idea of suicide had never appealed to him.

  He strode up the street toward the stump of the old Kaunian column in the center of town. The column itself had come down while he was in Forthweg- razed by the Algarvians, not by enemy action. Not much from the Kaunian past survived in Tricarico these days: not much in all of Algarve, from what he’d heard. The stump was bare, plain marble, about as tall as a man. The reliefs above it? Gone.

  Beyond the remains of the column, somebody moved. Bembo’s stick was in his hand on the instant. “Who goes?” he said sharply.

  “It’s only me,” a woman’s voice answered. “You wouldn’t do anything to bother me, now would you?”

  “Who the blazes-?” Bembo burst out. But the voice was familiar. “Fiametta, is that you?”

  “Well, who else would it be, sweetheart?” she said as she came around what was left of the column. Her tunic might have been painted on; her kilt barely covered her shapely backside. “Bembo?” she asked, stopping short in surprise when she recognized him. “I thought you were dead!”

  “Not quite,” Bembo said. “What are you doing out after curfew? You ought to know better than that.”

  “What do you think I was doing?” Fiametta twitched her hips. “I was working, that’s what. I’ll go along home like a good little girl, I promise.”

  Bembo barked laughter. “You haven’t been a good little girl since you got too big to make messes in your drawers. I caught you out right about here back when the war started, remember? I ought to run you in.”

  “You wouldn’t do that!” the courtesan exclaimed in dismay.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Bembo said. “You know what time it is. You’re out late. You can’t very well say I beat your door down and dragged you out of bed.”

  “Have a heart, Bembo!” Fiametta said. Bembo just stood there, looking official. The woman muttered something under her breath. He couldn’t make out what, which was probably just as well. She sighed. “Look, suppose I give you some, too? Will you leave me alone then? It wouldn’t be the first time, you know.”

  He didn’t even think about Saffa. Constables and courtesans made bargains like this all the time. “Now you’re talking,” he said.

  They found an alley where the street lights didn’t reach. When Bembo came out a few minutes later, he was whistling. Fiametta, he supposed, headed to her home, or maybe just to another paying job. He wondered what she would do if she ran into a Kuusaman patrol. From everything he’d seen, the Kuusamans didn’t make deals like that.

  The rest of his shift passed less enjoyably, but he didn’t have to do much. That suited him fine. The sun climbed up over the Bradano Mountains. He met his relief on the streets, then made his way back to the constabulary station to check out. As he neared the stairs, a skinny old man came up the street from the other direction. The fellow called his name.

  “Aye, that’s me,” Bembo answered. “Who are you? Curfew doesn’t end for another hour or so.” If this fellow had no good explanation for being out and about, he’d grab him and haul him in. That would show people what a
diligent fellow he was.

  “You don’t know me?” The skinny man looked down at himself. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. There was more of me when we saw each other last.”

  Bembo’s jaw dropped. “Sergeant Pesaro? Powers above! If this isn’t old home week, I don’t know what. But you were in Gromheort. How did you get out alive?”

  Pesaro shrugged. “I hadn’t quite starved to death when the Unkerlanters took the place-advantage to being fat, you know-and the fellow I surrendered to let me do it instead of blazing me. I got lucky there, I know. They didn’t feed me much in the captives’ camp, but they finally let most of us go-easier than hanging on to us, I expect. I’ve walked across most of Algarve to get here, on account of an awful lot of the ley lines still aren’t working the way they’re supposed to.”

  “You were lucky,” Bembo said.

  “If you want to call it that,” Pesaro answered. “How about you? You were in Eoforwic when the Unkerlanters took it, so I didn’t think I’d ever see your ugly mug again.”

  “I got wounded-broken leg-when the Unkerlanter attack opened up,” Bembo said. “We still had a line of retreat open from the town, so they shipped me out. I don’t think Oraste got away.”

  “Well, he always was a tough bastard,” Pesaro said. “If Swemmel’s men caught him, he’ll have the chance to prove it. And if they didn’t catch him, he’s bound to be dead.”

  Bembo climbed the stairs and held the door open. “Come on, Sergeant. Show ‘em you still know what’s what.”

  “All I know is, I’m cursed glad I’m still breathing,” Pesaro said as he wearily joined Bembo at the top of the stairs. “There were plenty of times when I didn’t think I would be.”

  “Who you jawing with, Bembo?” the desk sergeant asked. “You arrest somebody?”

  “No, Sergeant,” Bembo answered. “Look, here’s Sergeant Pesaro, back from the west. If he can make it back, maybe more people will.”

  “Sergeant Pesaro?” The desk sergeant sounded as if he couldn’t believe his ears. He got up and stared at Pesaro. “Why, by the powers above, it is. Welcome home, Sergeant. Always good news when another one comes back.” He glanced over at Bembo. “Well, almost always.”

  “And I love you, too, Sergeant,” Bembo said sweetly.

  Hearing Pesaro’s name brought constables and clerks out from the back rooms of the constabulary station. They pounded the newcomer’s back, clasped his wrist, and congratulated him on coming home again. They never paid that much attention to me, Bembo thought resentfully. But then he smiled to himself. Let them fuss as much as they want. I’ve got Saffa warming my bed, and Pesaro won’t be able to match that-or he’d better not, anyhow.

  Even Captain Sasso, who was in early, came down from his lofty office to greet Pesaro. “Good to see you, too, Captain,” Pesaro said. “I wondered if I ever would, after you sent me west.”

  That brought a moment of silence. Bembo hadn’t dared say any such thing to Sasso. The constabulary captain licked his lips. Everyone waited to hear how he would answer. At last, he said, “Well, Sergeant, back then none of us thought things would turn out the way they did.”

  Now it was Pesaro’s turn to think things over. Grudgingly, he nodded. “All right, Captain, that’s fair enough, I guess.”

  When Bembo went back to his flat, he found Saffa getting ready to go in to work. She burst into tears when he told her Pesaro had come back to Tricarico. She seemed so delighted, Bembo wondered if she had slept with the sergeant before he went west. But then Saffa said, “If he can come home. .” She didn’t finish the sentence, but she didn’t have to. If he can come home, my little bastard’s daddy can come home, too, and then the powers below eat you, Bembo. That was what she meant, that or something enough like it not to matter.

  Bembo almost said something sharp in return, but at the last minute he decided to keep his mouth shut-something that came close to constituting an unnatural act for an Algarvian. He kissed her, patted her on the backside, yawned, and headed for the bedroom. He was tired. Saffa, he thought, gave him a grateful look for not picking a fight. Just before he fell asleep, he heard the door close as she went off to the constabulary station.

  He got a rather different welcome when he came back to his flat a couple of mornings later. Saffa stood just inside the doorway. “You son of a whore!” she shouted, and slapped him in the face hard enough to rock him back on his heels. “You stick it into that cheap slut, and then you want to touch me? Not futtering likely!” She belted him again, backhand this time.

  Though his ears rang, he did ask the right question: “What in blazes are you talking about?” He’d nearly said, How did you know? That would have lost the game before it even started.

  But asking the right question didn’t do him a bit of good, for Saffa ground out, “Fiametta told Adonio what you did, and Adonio brought the lovely news back to the station, and now everybody there must know it. And if you think you’ll ever lay a finger on me again, let alone anything else-” She swung at him again.

  He caught her by the wrist. When he didn’t let go right away, she tried to bite his hand. “Stop that, powers below eat you!” he said. “I can expl-”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” Saffa said. “I never want to hear it. You’re not even wasting time telling me it’s all a lie.” She tried to twist away. He didn’t let go. She snarled, “You’d better turn me loose, Bembo, or I’ll really start screaming.”

  “All right, bitch,” he said, “but if you try and take my head off again I promise you’ll lose teeth. Got it?” Saffa nodded warily. Even more warily, Bembo let go of her arm.

  She took a quick step back. “I spent most of the night getting my stuff out of this place,” she said. “I have to see you at the station, but that’s all I have to do. As far as I’m concerned, you’re dead. Dead, do you hear me?”

  “Curse it, Saffa, all I did was-”

  “Screw a tart the first chance you got. No thanks, pal. You don’t play those games with me. Nobody plays those games with me.”

  “But, sweetheart,” Bembo whined, “I really love you.” Did he? He doubted it, but knew he had to sound as if he did. “It was just one of those things.” He even made the ultimate sacrifice: “Darling, I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry till the next time you think you can get it wet on the side. Goodbye!” Saffa hyphenated the two syllables by slamming the door so hard, the frame quivered. Bembo stood staring at it for several heartbeats. Then he walked into the flat’s little kitchen, poured himself a glass of spirits, and drank it down, all alone.

  Ceorl scratched at his cheeks. He’d been doing that for days now, and cursing and fuming every time he did it. “This fornicating itch is driving me out of my mind,” he said. “I don’t know what I’m going to do about it.”

  One of the Unkerlanter gang bosses-one of the few captives who ranked as Ceorl’s equal in the cinnabar mine-said, “Why don’t you cut your throat? Then we won’t have to listen to you anymore.” But even he smiled when he said it. He didn’t want trouble from Ceorl. Nobody, not captives, not guards, wanted trouble from Ceorl.

  Another Unkerlanter, one less prominent in the camp hierarchy, said, “Why don’t you cut off that ugly beard? Maybe that would do some good. It sure looks like you’ve got the mange.”

  “It does not,” Ceorl said indignantly. He was right, too; he had a fine, thick, curly beard. But he could have kissed that Unkerlanter-he’d been waiting for days for somebody to suggest shaving to him. He scratched again, then cursed again. “Powers above, maybe I will cut it off. Anything would be better than what I’m going through now. Who’s got a razor he can lend me?”

  The gang boss said, “You’ll need a scissors first, to get that mess short enough so a razor will cut it.”

  “If you say so,” Ceorl answered. “I don’t know anything about this shaving business. I really may cut my throat.”

  He didn’t get the chance to find out for another couple of days. He carefully spent al
l that time grumbling about how his face itched. When he got a scissors and a broken piece of mirror to guide his hand, he snipped away at the whiskers he’d never done more than trim before. By the time he set down the scissors, he was shaking his head. “I really do look mangy now.”

  The Unkerlanter called Fariulf handed him a straight razor and a cup of water to wet down what was left of his whiskers. “You won’t once you’re done here,” he said.

  Ceorl rapidly discovered he despised shaving. He cut himself several times. The razor scraped over his face. Had he really had an itchy skin, he was sure what he was doing would only have made things worse. His hide, in fact, did itch and sting by the time he got done. He shook his head again. “People have to be out of their cursed minds to want to do this every day.” Reaching for the scrap of mirror, he added, “How do I look?”

  His Unkerlanter was still foul. He knew that. People mostly understood him now, though. Somebody-somebody behind him, whom he couldn’t note- said, “You’re still ugly, but not the same way.”

  Looking into the mirror, Ceorl had to admit that wasn’t far wrong. A stranger stared back at him: a man with a thrusting chin with a cleft in it, hollows below his cheekbones, and a scar above his upper lip he’d never seen before. He hadn’t shown the world his bare face since he was a boy. He looked as if he’d suddenly got five years younger. He also looked like an Unkerlanter, not a Forthwegian.

  “How does it feel?” Fariulf asked.

  Lousy, Ceorl thought. But that was the wrong answer. He splashed a little water from the cup onto his abused face and ran the palm of his hand over his cheeks and chin. His skin felt as strange to him as it looked. Making himself smile, he said, “I think it’s better. I’m going to have to keep doing this.”

  Acquiring a razor of his own didn’t take long. Unkerlanter miners died all the time. Survivors split what little they had. They weren’t supposed to have razors, but the guards usually winked at that-picks and shovels and crowbars made weapons at least as dangerous. One of those razors ended up in Ceorl’s hands. Little by little, he learned to shave without turning his face into a mass of raw meat.