Bembo and Delminio weren’t in a capture squad. They were in a holding squad, to make sure none of the Kaunians escaped once captured. They waited in the street for their comrades to start bringing out blonds. They waited in the very middle of the street, and kept looking nervously up toward the buildings on either side of it.
“Kaunian bastards have their nerve,” Delminio said angrily.
Shrieks and screams rang out inside the block of flats. Before long, Kaunians started stumbling out of the building. The men were all bruised and bloody. The women were bruised and bloody, too, and some of them came down the steps without trousers. “Revenge,” Bembo said.
Delminio nodded. “Makes me wish I was in a capture squad,” he said. Bembo answered that with a shrug. Rape had never been his favorite sport.
A Kaunian spat on the dead Algarvian constable’s corpse. All that got him was another beating from the constables in the holding squad. Bembo swung his bludgeon with as much zeal as anyone else. “We can’t kill the bastard- that’d waste his life energy,” he said. “But we can sure as blazes make him wish he was dead.”
“All right, on with the rest of the business,” the captain said, when the last constables came out of the building. “They’ll pay. Oh, how they’ll pay.”
“Only one trouble with that,” Bembo said. Delminio raised an eyebrow. Bembo explained: “If the blonds know we’re going to do for them, why shouldn’t they try and boot us in the balls before they go west?”
His partner made a sour face. “That’s a nasty thought. You’re full of them today, aren’t you? Here’s hoping the Kaunians don’t have it, too.”
“Kaunians, come forth!” the captain shouted in front of the next block of flats. Bembo wondered why he bothered. Predictably, no blonds came forth. He just gave them another few seconds to conceal themselves before the capture squads swarmed in. The extra time didn’t seem to matter much, though. Soon, more battered Kaunians came out. The Algarvians would take their vengeance through the whole quarter.
As the holding squads took charge of the blonds the capture squads prised out of their flats, the captain kept a tally on a leaf of paper stuck in a clipboard. Bembo knew what that was all about. “Quota,” he said. “Not much point to this business if we don’t make quota, is there?”
Privately, he wondered if there was any point to it regardless of whether they made quota or not. For every Kaunian Algarve got rid of to fuel its mage-craft, what would the Unkerlanters do? Kill one of their own, or two of their own, or three, or four. Maybe KingMezentio hadn’t realized how very much in earnest about the warKingSwemmel was. If he didn’t realize it by now, he was a fool. And if he did realize it by now… maybe he was a fool anyhow, for biting off more war than he could chew.
No, I can’t say anything like that. I shouldn‘t even think anything like that. But Bembo couldn’t help it. He wasn’t blind. He wasn’t deaf. No matter what sergeants thought, he wasn’t stupid. If something hovered there in front of his nose and yelled at him at the top of its lungs, he couldn’t very well not notice it.
A lot of people he knew didn’t seem to think that way, though.
Delminio said, “I still wish we’d been on a capture squad. Some of these Kaunian wenches look pretty tasty, or they would have before our boys started roughing them up. Wouldn’t mind tearing off a piece, not even a little I wouldn’t.”
“If you want a broad that bad, pick one who suits you and throw her down on the cobblestones,” Bembo said. “Nobody’s going to do anything but cheer you on and line up behind you, not today.” He looked back toward the crumpled body of the Algarvian constable. Poor whoreson hadn’t known what hit him, anyhow. One second walking along, the next dead. There were worse ways to go.
Into the next block of flats charged the men from the capture squads. As before, they beat all the Kaunian men and most of the women before sending them out. As before, they had their sport with some of the women, too. Delminio said, “They keep on like that, they’ll be too cursed tired to finish the job.”
“They’d better not be,” the constabulary captain said. “They can do whatever they want-as long as they make quota. If they don’t make quota, they answer to me. There are still plenty of Kaunians in here, for us to harvest what we need.”
Quota. Harvest. Those were nice, bloodless words. They had very little to do with the bruised and bleeding and raped blonds huddled under the sticks of the holding squads. They let the captain do his job without thinking much about what he was doing. They’d let you do the same, if you didn’t keep poking and prodding at things, Bembo told himself. It’s only Kaunians, after all.
But the noises they made-not the words he could hardly understand, having forgotten the classical Kaunian he’d had beaten into him at school, but the wordless sounds of pain and sorrow and despair-were the same as those so many Algarvians might have made. Bembo violently shook his head. What was he doing, thinking of Algarvians in such straits? What was the war about, if not making sure Algarvians never found themselves in such straits?
One block of flats after another, the capture squads seized Kaunians and sent them down to the street. At last, the captain blew his whistle. “Quota!” he shouted. “Now let’s get ‘em to the caravan depot for transport.”
Transport. Another bloodless word. Let’s send them off to be killed. That was what the word meant. That was what the captain meant. But he didn’t have to say it, so he didn’t have to think it. Bembo shook his head. You’re thinking too much yourself again.
Some of the Kaunians were too badly battered to have an easy time walking. The constables’ solution to that was to beat them some more. They set other blonds to carrying the ones that didn’t spur into motion.
“See?” a constable said as they left the Kaunian quarter. “You’re out. Aren’t you glad? Aren’t you happy?”
Forthwegians on the streets jeered the Kaunians on their way to the ley-line caravan depot. By the way some of the Kaunians flinched, that hurt more than the beatings they’d taken from the Algarvians. Bembo didn’t understand that, but saw it was so.
As some desperate Kaunian had hurled the flowerpot down on the constables, so somebody-a woman-hurled one word in Algarvian at them from an upper story: “Shame!”
Delminio laughed. So did the captain leading the constables. Bembo only shrugged. The flowerpot had done some damage. What could a word do?
As always, shoving too many Kaunians into not enough caravan cars was hard work. As always, the constables did what needed doing, and barred the doors from the outside when they finished. The windows were already shuttered.
To Bembo’s surprise, the caravan glided off toward the east, the direction of Algarve and the Kaunian kingdoms beyond. “Haven’t seen that in a while,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“I hear the fellows with the thick spectacles are worried about Valmiera,” Delminio answered. “If Lagoas and Kuusamo try invading, we’ll throw ‘em right back into the Strait, by the powers above.”
“Aye,” Bembo said, and then, “We’d bloody well better.”
Skarnu liked the farm the Valmieran underground leaders had found for Merkela and little Gedominu-and now for himself. It wasn’t so big as the one outside Pavilosta where she’d lived, but the land was richer. He chuckled when that thought crossed his mind. Before the war, he wouldn’t have been able to tell good farmland from bad.
He thought Merkela would laugh, too, when he told her that. But she didn’t. She said, “That’s something you should have known.” She had Gedominu on her hip. She always did when she needed to do chores, and the farm always had chores to do. The baby didn’t slow her down a bit. She got more work done with him than Skarnu did without him.
“You’re probably right,” Skarnu said. “No, you’re certainly right. But I didn’t. I didn’t know a lot of things back then.” He reached out and stroked her cheek. “I didn’t know what mattered to me. That’s most important.”
She flushed. She never see
med to know how to take endearments. Maybe she hadn’t got many while married to old Gedominu. That hadn’t stopped her from loving him, or from naming their baby after him. Before she could say anything in return, her eyes swung away from Skarnu and toward the road that ran by the little farmhouse. “Someone’s coming.”
Not many people came down that road; the farmhouse was a long way from the nearest village, let alone Ramygala, the nearest real town. Skarnu looked, too. Anyone who did come this way was liable to mean trouble. But then he grinned and exclaimed, “That’s Raunu!”
“You’re right.” Merkela waved to the veteran sergeant. “I’m always glad to see him come up my road.”
As Raunu waved back, Skarnu raised an eyebrow. “Should I be jealous?” he asked. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wished he had them back: the answer might beaye. True, Raunu was old enough to have fought in the Six Years’ War. But her first husband had fought in the Six Years’ War, too, so would she mind?
To Skarnu’s relief, she laughed at him instead of getting angry. “I ought to say you should, just to see you fuss.”
Skarnu made a face at her, and she laughed again. Then he hurried forward to clasp Raunu’s hand. “Good to see you,” he said. “What’s up? Or did you come for a social call?”
Raunu’s snort showed how likely that was. “Captain, I like you fine, and your lady, too”-he nodded to Merkela, whose answering smile was almost warm enough to make Skarnu fuss-”but this is business. Something’s brewing in the south, and you’re one of the fellows who’s been busy down there.”
Alertness surged through Skarnu. “You’d better tell me about it.” He pointed back toward the little farmhouse. “Will you come in and drink some ale while you talk?”
“Thank you kindly. I’d be glad to.” As Raunu passed Merkela, he paused to eye little Gedominu. “He’s grown a lot since the last time I saw him. They’ve got a way of doing that, babies do.”
“Forgive the ale,” Merkela said as she poured. “It’s bought; I didn’t brew it myself.”
Raunu sipped and shrugged. “I’ve had plenty worse. Don’t fret yourself.”
After drinking from his own mug, Skarnu said, “The south.”
“Aye, the south,” Raunu agreed. “The redheads are as nervous down there as a cat trying to watch four mouseholes at once. They’ve been sending all kinds of bigwigs to the seashore to try and figure out what’s going on.” He coughed. “ColonelLurcanio’s down there right now, for instance.”
“Is he?” Skarnu gulped the mug dry. His sister’s lover had come too close to capturing him back near Pavilosta. Merkela handed him the bottle. He poured the mug full again. “Are they down there for the obvious reason? Are the Lagoans and Valmierans finally going to cross the Strait of Valmiera?”
He’d never asked that question before. He’d always been professionally incurious about it. What he didn’t know, nobody could rip from him if things went wrong. But Raunu wouldn’t have come here talking about the south if such a thing were impossible.
“By all the signs, Mezentio’s men think they are,” Raunu answered. “They’re hauling in Kaunians from Forthweg again, and you know what that means.”
“Murder,” Skarnu said. His old sergeant nodded. “Nasty magecraft,” he added, and Raunu nodded again. “Powers below eat the Algarvians,” he finished. This time, both Raunu and Merkela nodded.
“That’s about the size of it,” Raunu said. “We’ve wrecked some of the ley-line caravans, but some of them have got through.” He scowled. “Even if we’d wrecked ‘em all, there’s nothing really stopping the redheads from grabbing as many Valmierans as they need and doing them in. Only reason they don’t do that more, I think, is to keep from spooking us. But if they’ve got a chance to throw an invasion back into the sea, I figure they’d worry about that first and everything else later.”
“You’re right.” Merkela’s voice held no doubt. “It’s just like them, the-” She cursed as foully and fluently as a veteran underofficer.
“Arethe Lagoans and Kuusamans going to invade?” Skarnu demanded. “Do we know one way or the other?”
Raunu shook his head. “They won’t say aye and they won’t say no. Cursed foreigners don’t trust us.”
“There are times when they have reason not to,” Merkela said. “We have traitors in the underground. What we know, the Algarvians have a chance of learning.”
“CountAmatu,” Skarnu said. Raunu had looked unhappy at Merkela’s comment, but he couldn’t argue with that.
And, as if being reminded of Amatu reminded him of something else, he said, “The redheads have started recruiting Valmierans to fight for ‘em, too. They’ve got maybe a regiment’s worth. Some of them paraded through Priekule a few days ago, wearing Algarvian flags on the sleeves of Valmieran uniforms.”
Merkela’s curses this time made the ones she’d used before sound like endearments. Skarnu said, “They must be scraping the bottom of their own barrel.” Again, he did his best to stay professional. That way, the idea that his own countrymen would go to war for their conquerors was just a piece of information to be analyzed, not something to disgust and sicken him. Try as he would, detachment didn’t come easy. He asked the next question: “What has all this got to do with me?”
“You know what’s going on down in the south,” Raunu repeated. “Some people want you to look around and tell them what you think.”
“If they think that will help, I can do it,” Skarnu said. “Do they want me to travel by myself, or with Palasta again?”
Merkela made a noise down deep in her throat. “Should /be jealous?” she asked.
Raunu looked blank. Skarnu laughed and shook his head. “She’s a girl,” he said. “I like women, thanks.” That satisfied Merkela. It did more than satisfy her, in fact; by her smile, it pleased her. Pleased with himself for satisfying her and telling the truth at the same time, Skarnu turned to Raunu. “When and where do I meet her?”
“She’ll be in the second car of the ley-line caravan coming through Ramygala at noon tomorrow,” Raunu answered. “The caravan will take you down to the Strait of Valmiera. Here’s money for your fare and food and such, and for the return trip.” He pulled a small leather sack from his pocket and gave it to Skarnu. It clinked.
After another mug of ale, Raunu went on his way with the air of a man who had further important business to attend to. He probably did. Merkela nursed little Gedominu till he fell asleep. Then she turned to Skarnu in a marked manner. “If you’re going off again,” she said, “will you give me something to remember you by?”
“What have you got in mind?” he asked, and did as much as he could then and in the night to attend to that. When he left early in the morning to walk to Ramygala, he was yawning. Even had he been drawn to Palasta, he wouldn’t have been able to do much about it for a while.
The ley-line caravan was late. When it finally got to town, the young mage was in the car where Raunu had said she would be. She smiled as he sat down beside her. “How are you, sis?” he asked.
“Just fine, thanks,” she said. “Couldn’t be better. It’ll be good to get down to the seaside and say hello to Mother.” Skarnu nodded, even though Mother was fictitious. I wish you were my sister, went through his mind, as it had on the trip to the southeast he’d made with Palasta. I’d rather have you than Krasta. But, whatever he wished, he had no more luck choosing his relatives than did anyone from King Gainibu on down.
Because the caravan car filled up fast, they spent the trip south talking about the family they didn’t have and the plans they hadn’t made. Skarnu kept looking at the men and women around them. No telling who might be inKingMezentio ’s pay. If Valmierans could fight with Algarve’s banner sewn to their sleeves, Skarnu’s countrymen were capable of any enormity.
“Alsvanga!” the conductor called when the ley-line caravan came to a stop at the depot by the sea. “All out for Alsvanga!”
Along with Palasta, Skarnu got out. In peaceti
me, he could have taken a ferry across the Strait of Valmiera to Lagoas, for the ley line continued even if the land petered out. These days, there were no ferries. Lean, sharklike little Algarvian patrol boats filled the harbor. “How can the Lagoans even think of getting an army across the Strait in the face of all this?” Skarnu asked in a low voice.
“I don’t know,” Palasta answered, also quietly. “Maybe it has something to do with… what I felt the last time we went traveling.” She was young, but she was sensible, too sensible to speak much about where they’d gone and what they’d done.
And she was wise to be so sensible, too, for Alsvanga was full of Algarvians-not just sailors but also soldiers. Some of the soldiers were older men in neat uniforms: typical occupation troops. But Skarnu saw a few who were plainly combat veterans. Their eyes were hard and watchful, as his were. They didn’t care so much about how they dressed. A good many of them wore wound badges, sometimes with the ribbons that said they’d been hurt more than once.
“They’re ready,” Skarnu murmured. “They’re as ready as they can be.” By then, he and Palasta had left the town of Alsvanga and were walking along a country road. She led the way. She had more senses to guide her toward what needed discovering than Skarnu did.
But she didn’t know everything there was to know. “Where are the Algarvians coming up with their men?” she asked.
“Only one place they can be pulling ‘em from, and that’s Unkerlant,” Skarnu replied with a certain somber satisfaction. “And that won’t do them any good-no, no good at all-when the fighting picks up there. And it will. I’m sure it will.”
“Powers below eat the redheads,” Palasta whispered fiercely. She paused, gathered in thought, and pointed. “There. The camp where they’re holding the Kaumans from Forthweg is beyond that stand of beeches.”
But Skarnu, for once, hadn’t needed her sorcery to tell him that. The wind had swung. He could smell the nasty stink of unwashed humanity and human misery. “They’ll have mages around here too somewhere, won’t they?” he asked. Palasta nodded. So did Skarnu, grimly. “Aye, they’re ready, all right,” he said. “If Lagoas and Kuusamo are going to cross the Strait here, I don’t see how they can hope to land.” He kicked at the dirt. “Curse it.”
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