Through the Darkness

“Cursed old idiot,” Bembo said as the Kaunian staggered away. “You watch, you wait--sooner or later he’s going to come out once too often. Then he’ll either get blazed or get stomped or get shipped west, depending on who catches him and how much he frosts people. And it’ll be his own stupid fault, too.” Blaming Brivibas meant he didn’t even have to think about blaming Algarve for the Kaunian’s fate.

Oraste didn’t worry about such things. All he said was, “Good riddance.” Then his eyes, green as a panther’s, narrowed. “You know, I wonder if the old sod’s somehow connected to that other fellow we were talking with--the mouthy Forthwegian, I mean.”

Bembo took off his hat, fanned himself with it, and scratched his head. “How do you figure that?”

“Why would a soldier in Plegmund’s Brigade brawl with his kin?” Oraste asked, and provided his own answer: “Maybe on account of they’re Kaunian-lovers, and that makes him want to heave. We already know the old blond’s granddaughter ran off with a Forthwegian, right? Hangs together pretty good, you ask me.”

“Well, I’ll be a son of a whore,” Bembo said, staring at his partner as if he’d never seen him before. “That Forthwegian looked like he had money, too. He’d have to have money, or he couldn’t afford to live in this part of town. If you’re right, we can shake him down for a bundle.”

Oraste grunted. “Even if I’m wrong, we can shake him down for a bundle. He’s not going to want that story spreading no matter what.”

“That’s true.” Bembo’s head bobbed up and down in eager agreement. “Let’s go track down that murder he was talking about it. Somebody’ll know everything there is to know about it, and that’ll tell us who he is and how much he’s liable to have.” He grinned. “Constabulary work at its finest.” And so it was. That he’d be using it to fatten his belt pouch, not to run down some desperate criminal, bothered him not at all.

Once he and Oraste started asking questions back at the barracks, they got answers in short order. The only trouble was, Bembo didn’t much like the answers they got. Neither did Oraste. “You’re so cursed smart,” he said with a fine curl of the lip. “Sounds like this Hestan bugger’s already paying off everybody and his mother. We can’t touch him, not unless we want half the Algarvian bigwigs in town landing on our backs.”

“How was I supposed to know?” Bembo struck a pose of melodramatic innocence. “Besides, this was your brainstorm, not mine, so why are you blaming me?”

“Why not?” Oraste retorted. “You’re handy.” Bembo started to make a rude suggestion, but held his tongue instead. For one thing, he was nervous about getting Oraste too angry. And, for another, his partner had a point-- blaming whoever looked handy was also constabulary work at its finest.

Vanai stared out the window of her flat and worried. Down in the street, Forthwegian rioters hurled rocks and bricks and anything else they could lay their hands on at an outnumbered band of Algarvian constables. A constable went down, clutching at his bleeding head. His pals wasted no time after that, but started blazing into the crowd.

Screams rose. The Forthwegians scattered, leaving wounded men writhing on the cobblestones and one woman who wasn’t moving at all. Before long, the rioters would attack some other Algarvians somewhere else.

“And I hope they get some more of them, too,” Vanai muttered. But that wasn’t why she worried. Ealstan had left the flat to cast accounts bright and early in the morning. This latest round of riots had broken out a couple of hours later. Vanai had no idea why. Maybe the Algarvians had committed another outrage. Maybe, too, the long, hot summer days were making the people of Eoforwic irritable. Whatever the cause--if there was a cause--how was Ealstan supposed to get home through the chaos?

As always when things went wrong, Vanai wondered, What would I do without Ealstan? She depended on him far more than she ever had on Brivibas. She also cared for him far more than she’d cared for her grandfather. If Brivibas had fallen over dead one morning, she could easily have gone on with her life. Without Ealstan ...

How could I even go out and buy food? How could I make money to buy food? That second question, unfortunately, had an obvious answer. Having sold, or rather traded, her body to keep her grandfather out of a labor gang, she couldn’t dismiss the notion of prostituting herself out of hand. But if the redheads caught her and flung her into the tiny Kaunian quarter or simply shipped her west, even that wouldn’t do her any good.

“Curfew!” an Algarvian shouted in Forthwegian down below. “Sunset curfew! Anyone on streets after sunsetting, we blazing!” He walked along, then shouted his warning--threat? promise?--again.