Through the Darkness

“Thanks,” Skarnu repeated, though leaving Merkela, leaving the child she was carrying, was the last thing he wanted to do. One more reason to curse the Algarvians, he thought. Calling Mezentio’s men to mind made him ask, “What’ll you do if the redheads come while I’m in the barn?”

“Get you away if we can,” Maironiu answered. “If we can’t...” He shrugged broad shoulders. “We’ll pretend we didn’t know you were there, that’s all.”

“Fair enough.” Skarnu didn’t think he could have come up with a better response, not when he was endangering Maironiu and his family by being here. He picked up his sodden cloak and put it back on. Maironiu’s wife exclaimed at the puddle it left on the floor.

Skarnu hadn’t slept on straw for a while, not since he’d started sharing Merkela’s bed. Exhausted as he was, he could have slept on nails and broken glass. He felt deep underwater when Maironiu shook him awake. The farmer had on a cloak much like his. “Hate to do it to you, pal,” Maironiu said, “but some things just won’t wait.”

“Aye.” Skarnu hauled himself to his feet. The first few steps he took, out to the barn door, he stumbled like a drunken man. Then the cold rain hit him in the face. That woke him up, and sobered him up, in a hurry. “Where are we going?” he asked as he followed Maironiu away from the farm.

“Like I told you, I know somebody,” Maironiu replied. “You don’t really want a name, do you?” Skarnu considered, then shook his head. Maironiu grunted approval. “All right, then. Once you’re out of this part of the kingdom, you should be pretty safe again, eh?”

“I suppose so.” Skarnu kept looking back over his shoulder, not toward Maironiu’s farm but toward Merkela’s. Old Gedominu’s place, he thought. Everything in the world that mattered to him was there, and he couldn’t go back, not if he wanted to live. Cursing under his breath, he squelched after Maironiu.

Sixteen

Sergeant Pesaro glared at the constables lined up before him. Bembo looked back steadfastly, holding out a shield of burnished innocence to cover up whatever he might have done to rouse Pesaro’s anger. But Pesaro wasn’t angry at him. The sergeant seemed angry at the whole world. “Boys, we’ve got ourselves a problem,” he declared.

“Our problem is whatever’s eating him,” Bembo whispered to Oraste. The other constable grunted and nodded.

Pesaro pointed to a Forthwegian in a knee-length tunic walking past the barracks. “D’you see that bastard?” he said. “D’you see him?”

“Aye, Sergeant,” the constables chorused dutifully. Bembo made sure his voice was a loud part of that chorus.

Sergeant Pesaro kept right on pointing at the stocky, hook-nosed, black-bearded man. “You see him, eh? Well, all right--how do you know he’s not a stinking Kaunian?”

“Because he doesn’t look like a Kaunian, Sergeant,” Bembo said, and then, under his breath to Oraste, “Because we’re not bloody idiots, Sergeant.” Oraste grunted again.

But Pesaro was unappeased. “Do you know what those lousy blonds have gone and done? Do you? I’ll bloody well tell you what they’ve done. They’ve found themselves a magic that lets ‘em look like Forthwegians, that’s what. How are we supposed to tell who’s a stinking Kaunian snake in the grass if we can’t tell who’s a stinking Kaunian snake in the grass?”

Bembo’s head started to ache. If that Forthwegian really was a Kaunian-- if you couldn’t tell who was who by looking--how in blazes were you supposed to keep the blonds in their own district?

Somebody stuck up a hand. Pesaro pointed to him, as if relieved not to be pointing at the Forthwegian--if he was a Forthwegian--anymore. The constable asked, “Can they make themselves look like us, too, or only like Forthwegians?”

“That’s a good question,” Pesaro said. “I don’t have a good answer for it. All I got told about was Kaunians looking like Forthwegians.”

Bembo stuck his hand in the air. “How do we know ‘em if we do find any? And what do we do if we catch one?”

“The way you know is, snip off some hair. If it turns blond once it’s cut, you’ve caught yourself a Kaunian. If you catch one, you take the bugger to the caravan depot and ship his arse west. If he’s a she, you can do whatever else you want first. Nobody’ll say boo. We’ve got to stop this.”

“Pretty miserable business, all right,” Bembo said. “The blonds don’t want to go west, so they stop looking like blonds. That’s not playing fair.”

“Too cursed right it isn’t.” Pesaro didn’t notice the joke. “If we’re going to lick the Unkerlanters, we need Kaunians. We can’t let ‘em slip out from between our fingers like snot. And if you nail the whoreson who came up with this magic, you can ask for the moon. They’d probably give it to you. Any more questions? No? Get your backsides out there and catch those buggers.”