Through the Darkness

The fellow took it for Algarvian; Lagoans had a demon of a time telling the two languages apart. But when he answered, also in Algarvian, the Sibian exiles managed to understand him: “Bucket brigade!”

From then till dawn, Cornelu passed buckets back and forth. He stood between one of his countrymen and a Lagoan with whom he had trouble speaking. The work needed no words at all, though. He just sent full buckets one way and empties the other.

Thick clouds spoiled the sunrise. Only very gradually did Cornelu realize he was seeing by more than the light of the flames the bucket brigade battled. Not long after he did so, a hard, cold rain began to fall. The weary men raised a weary cheer: the rain would do more to stifle the fires than anything they could achieve on their own. Before long, a Lagoan officer blew his whistle and shouted a word even Cornelu understood: “Dismissed!”

He didn’t realize how truly worn he was till he stopped working. He turned his face up to the rain and let it wash sweat and soot from his forehead and cheeks. That felt good--powers above, it felt wonderful--for a little while. Then he realized he was shivering. And no wonder: all he had on were the light tunic and kilt he’d worn to bed, and the rain--which was starting to have pea-sized hail mixed in with it--had already got them good and soaked.

The Lagoan who’d labored beside him for so long put a hand on his shoulder and said, “You--come with me. Food.” He rubbed his belly. “Tea.” He mimed bringing a mug up to his face. “Hot. Good. Come.”

Cornelu understood all that. Every single word of it sounded wonderful. “Aye,” he said, in the best Lagoan he had.

His new friend led him to a mess hall. Most of the men in there were dripping, and more than a few of them wore only nightclothes. Roaring fires heated the hall past what would have been comfortable most of the time, but it felt splendid now. Cornelu queued up for big, salty fried herrings; for buttery oatmeal nearly as thick and sticky as wet cement; and for steaming tea so full of honey, the spoon almost stood up without touching the side of the mug.

He ate as intently as he ever had while in the woodcutting gang back on his home island of Tirgoviste. Herring wasn’t reckoned a breakfast food in Sibiu, but he wouldn’t have complained under any circumstances, not as hungry as he was--and he’d been doing so much hard work for so long, the meal scarcely seemed like breakfast anyhow. He went back for seconds.

So did the Lagoan who’d brought him here. The fellow wore a petty officer’s uniform and had the breezy efficiency--the real sort, not the artificial kind Swemmel tried to instill into the Unkerlanters--of a good underofficer in any navy. He spent a lot of time cursing the Algarvians: not so much for being the enemy in general or even for what they’d just done to Setubal as for costing him half a night’s sleep. After rubbing his belly again, this time in real satisfaction, he glanced across the table at Cornelu and remarked, “Your clothes—fftt!”

That last wasn’t a word in any language Cornelu knew, but he understood it. He liked the sound of it, too. “Aye,” he said. “Clothes fftt.”

The Lagoan got to his feet. “Come with me,” he said again, in the tones of a man giving an order. He couldn’t have known Cornelu was a commander--- clothes went a long way toward making a man, or, in the case of sodden night-clothes, toward unmaking him. On the other hand, he might not have cared had he known; some petty officers got so used to bullying sailors around that they bullied their superiors, too.

Inside of another half hour, he had Cornelu outfitted in a Lagoan sailor’s uniform, complete with a heavy coat and a broad-brimmed hat to shed the rain. “I thank you,” Cornelu said in Sibian; the phrased remained similar in all the Algarvic languages.

“It’s nothing,” the petty officer answered, catching his drift. Then he said something Cornelu couldn’t precisely follow, but it included Mezentio’s name and several obscenities and vulgarities. Having taken care of Cornelu, the Lagoan went on his way.

Cornelu walked back to the crumpled Sibian barracks. The sour smell of wet smoke still hung in the air despite the rain. But Cornelu’s uniform, all his effects, the whole building, were indeed fftt. A Sibian lieutenant still wearing nothing but soaked nightclothes gave him a look full of lacerating jealousy and said, “You seem to have landed on your feet better than anyone, sir. As far as I can see, we’re on our own till the Lagoans get around to providing for us.”

“All right.” That was what Cornelu had hoped to hear. “I’m going into town, then. I want to make sure some friends are all right.” Janira mattered to him. Balio, her father, mattered to him because he mattered to her.