Through the Darkness

“Well, that’s true enough,” Sabrino said. “Nobody can do much with that country; it’s too bloody poor. If it weren’t for furs and cinnabar, the hairy savages could keep it and welcome. But still. . . We can’t afford to send any men at all?”

“Not a one,” Vasto answered. “That’s what they’re saying, anyhow. Swemmel’s pulling out all the stops down in Sulingen. He’s no fool--he’s crazy, but he’s no fool. He knows as well as we do that if we get across the Wolter and into the hills, he’s ruined. So we have to give it everything we’ve got down there, too.”

Sabrino spat on the carpeted floor of Vasto’s comfortable office, as he might have out in the field. His disgust was too great for any smaller gesture. Bitterly, he said, “They told us slaughtering the Kaunians would crack the Unkerlanters like an almond shell. They told us we had plenty of men, plenty of dragons, to lick the Lagoans off the land of the Ice People and still whip Swemmel, too. And they believed it, too, every time they said it. And now it comes down to this?”

“Now it comes down to this,” Vasto agreed. “But if we break the Unkerlanters this time, they’re broken for good. You can take that to the bank, Sabrino.”

“Well, you know more about the big picture than I do,” Sabrino said. “I never worried much about anything but my piece of it, whatever that happened to be. So here’s hoping you’re right.”

“Oh, I am.” Vasto spoke in his normal tone of voice for the first time. “Once we take Sulingen and the Mamming Hills, the Unkerlanters won’t be able to lick us. We’ll roll ‘em up the way you do a ball of yarn.”

“All right.” Sabrino held up a forefinger. “Now let me guess. I bet I can see the future without being any kind of mage at all. I predict”--he tried to sound mystical, and had no doubt he ended up sounding absurd--”I predict my wing will be flying west before long.”

Vasto said, “I haven’t seen your orders--I didn’t even know you were back on the mainland of Derlavai. But I wouldn’t bet an olive pit against you. They say southern Unkerlant is lovely this time of year. But they say it gets pretty cold in another couple of months, too.”

“I’ve seen all the cold I want, thanks,” Sabrino said. “We’ll just have to beat the Unkerlanters before then, that’s all.”

Sergeant Pesaro looked over with something less than delight the squad of Algarvian constables he led in Gromheort. “Come on, you lugs--let’s do it,” he said. “The sooner we take care of it, the sooner we can get back to our everyday business.”

Standing there listening to Pesaro, Bembo leaned toward Oraste and murmured, “He doesn’t much like this, either.”

Oraste’s answering shrug showed none of the usual Algarvian playfulness. It was as indifferent as it was massive: a mountain might have shrugged that way. “What difference does it make? He’s going to do it, and so are we.”

As if to underscore Oraste’s words, Pesaro went on, “We go in there; we grab our quota, and we get out. Has everybody got that?”

“Permission to fall out, Sergeant?” Almonio asked. The young constable never had been able to stand rounding up Kaunians.

But Pesaro shook his head. “Not this time. You’re coming along with us, by the powers above. This isn’t some little village in the middle of nowhere. This is the Kaunian quarter in the middle of Gromheort. You never can tell who’s liable to be watching. Any other questions?” He looked around. Nobody said anything. Pesaro stuck out a meaty forefinger. “All right. Let’s go.”

Off they went, bootheels clattering on cobbles. Almonio muttered to himself and swigged from a hip flask as they tramped along. Pesaro affected not to notice that. So did Bembo, though he wished he’d thought to equip himself with a hip flask, too.

They weren’t the only squad of constables on the march, either. Most of the Algarvians who kept order in Gromheort were moving toward the Kaunian quarter. With a chuckle, Bembo said, “Any Forthwegian crooks who know what we’ve got laid on could rob this town blind while we’re busy.”

“They could try,” Oraste said. “You ask me, though, there’s not much here worth stealing.”

A couple of Kaunians saw what amounted to a company of constables bearing down on their quarter. The blonds ran back toward the miserable market square they’d set up in the middle of the district, calling out in alarm. “Don’t worry about it, boys,” said the constabulary lieutenant in charge of the Algarvians. “Don’t you worry about it one little bit. You know what you’re supposed to do, don’t you?”

“Aye, sir,” the constables chorused.

“All right, then.” The lieutenant wore a whistle on a silver chain around his neck. He raised it to his lips and blew a long, piercing blast. “Go do it, then!”

“My squad--perimeter duty!” Pesaro bellowed, for all the world as if the constables were assaulting a fortified position down in southern Unkerlant. “Move! Move! Move! Don’t let the blond buggers get past you.”