Out of the Darkness

Bembo strutted through the ravaged streets of Eoforwic twirling his bludgeon by its leather strap, as if he were the king of the world. Once upon a time, Algarvians on occupation duty in Forthweg might as well have been kings of the world. The constable sighed, pining for the good old days. He put on his show at least as much to keep up his own spirits as to impress the Forthwegians around him.

From behind him, somebody called out in pretty good Algarvian: “Hey, tubby, the Unkerlanters’ll press you for oil when they cross the Twegen!”

By the time Bembo and his partner, Oraste, had whirled, nobody back there looked to have opened his mouth. None of the Forthwegians on the street so much as smiled. That left the constable with nobody to blame. “Smartmouthed son of a whore,” Bembo said. He started to set his free hand on his belly, as if to deny he had too much of it. Then, as if afraid the gesture would call attention to his ample flesh, he left it uncompleted.

Oraste, unlike Bembo, was not the typical high-spirited, excitable Algarvian. He was, in fact, dour as an Unkerlanter most of the time. But he was laughing now, laughing at Bembo. “He got you good, he did.”

“Oh, shut up,” Bembo muttered. He didn’t say it very loud. Oraste had a formidable temper, and Bembo didn’t care to have it aimed at him. One of the reasons he enjoyed being a constable was that it meant he could dish out trouble without having to take it.

All that had broken down during the Forthwegian uprising here. Constables and soldiers had fought side by side then, what with the rebels giving almost as much trouble as they were getting. And, with the Unkerlanters indeed just on the other side of the river, nobody could feel safe at night-or, for that matter, during the daytime. If they started tossing eggs again.. Bembo looked around for the closest hole into which to jump. As he’d expected, he wouldn’t have to run far. Eoforwic, these days, was little but holes and rubble.

He and Oraste turned a corner. A couple of Forthwegians had been shouting at each other. When they saw the constables, they abruptly fell silent. Bembo let out a small sigh. He might have had the chance to shake them down if they’d kept squabbling. Oraste sighed, too. He probably would sooner have beaten them up than put a bribe in his belt pouch, but no accounting for taste.

A squad of Algarvian soldiers tramped by, on their way down to the Twegen. One of them pointed to Bembo and Oraste and called, “You constable bastards thought you were lucky, all safe and comfy back here in Forthweg away from the western front. Well, now the Unkerlanters have bloody well come to you since you didn’t have the balls to go to them.” His pals laughed.

There were a dozen of them. Because there were a dozen of them, Bembo replied in a whisper only Oraste could hear: “If you soldier bastards hadn’t got run out of Unkerlant, we wouldn’t be worrying about Swemmel’s buggers now.”

His partner grunted and nodded and said, “If I ever see that particular son of a whore by himself, he’ll be sorry his mother let the next-door neighbor in for a quickie whenever her husband went to work.”

Bembo guffawed. A couple of soldiers looked back suspiciously. “Come on, you lugs, get moving,” called the corporal in charge of them. “What do we care about a couple of fornicating constables?”

“I wish I was a fornicating constable right now,” Bembo said. “It’d be a lot more fun than what I am doing.”

Oraste laughed less than Bembo thought the joke deserved. That made Bembo sulk instead of strutting as he and Oraste paced off their beat. A lot of Algarvians would have jollied him along till he was in a good humor again. Oraste, a sullen fellow himself, didn’t care-indeed, didn’t notice-what sort of humor the people around him were in.

“They ought to send us all back to Algarve,” Bembo said after a while, looking for something new to complain about. “All us constables, I mean.”

That made Oraste laugh, but not in the way Bembo had intended. “Oh, aye, the soldiers would really love us then,” he said. “Wake up, fool. Sleepy time’s over.”

“But what good are we doing here?” Bembo demanded. Now that he’d started, his complaints made perfect sense-to him, at least. “This whole miserable city is under military occupation and martial law. What are constables good for, then?”

“For whatever soldiers don’t feel like doing,” Oraste answered. “I know what’s eating you, old pal. You can’t fool me. You just don’t want to be here when Swemmel’s bastards finally get around to swarming over the Twegen.”

“Oh, and you do?” Bembo retorted. “I’ll just bet you do, sweetheart.”

Oraste didn’t answer that. Because he didn’t, Bembo concluded he had no answer. There was no answer. No Algarvian in his right mind-probably no crazy Algarvian, either-wanted to be in a town the Unkerlanters overran. If you were in there then, either you wouldn’t come out or you’d come out a captive. Bembo wondered which was worse. He hoped he wouldn’t have to find out.