Darkness Descending

“That’s the truth, sure enough,” Bembo agreed. The barmaid came by with an earthenware pitcher and refilled their glasses. Since Bembo had bought the last round, Pesaro set a small silver coin down on the table. The barmaid took it. As she went off to serve someone else, Pesaro reached out and pinched her backside.

She sprang in the air and gave him a dirty look. “You shouldn’t have done that,” Bembo said mournfully. “Now she’ll spend the rest of the day pretending not to notice us.”

“She’d better not,” Pesaro growled. “Besides, it’s not like I’m the only one in this tavern who’s ever got his hands on that arse.”

Looking around, Bembo had to nod. Because it was across the street from their barracks, the tavern was always full of Algarvian constables--and Algarvians had never been shy about putting their hands on women, their own or those of the kingdoms they’d overrun. “Will she sleep with you for silver?” Bembo asked.

“Curse me if I know,” Pesaro answered. “I never thought she was pretty enough to try and find out. The blond wenches in the soldiers’ brothels look a lot better to me.”

“Well, I won’t tell you you’re wrong about that,” Bembo said. “All these Forthwegian women are built like bricks.” He started to say something more, but then pointed to another constable a couple of tables away. “Oh, powers above! Almonio’s gone and drunk himself into another crying jag.”

Pesaro cursed as he twisted on his stool. He had to push it back to get his belly past the front of the table. He too watched the young constable sitting there with tears streaming down his face. Almonio was very drunk; a pitcher like the one the barmaid carried lay on its side, empty, on the table in front of him. “Miserable bugger,” Pesaro said, shaking his head. “I don’t know why he ever thought he could be a constable.”

“Sergeant, you never should have let him beg off hauling Kaunians out of their houses with the rest of us,” Bembo said. “I don’t like it, either--that’s another reason I’m glad I’m back in Gromheort, aside from all the marching I’m not doing--but I pull my weight.” He looked down at himself. “And I’ve got a deal of weight to pull, too.” If he hadn’t said it, Pesaro would have, though he carried even more weight than Bembo.

As things were, Pesaro emptied his new glass of wine before asking, “You think he’d be better if I made him do it?”

“You’re the one who always says things like there’s nothing like a boot in the arse to concentrate the brain,” Bembo answered.

“I know, I know.” Pesaro waved for the barmaid again. Sure enough, she pretended not to see him. Muttering, the constabulary sergeant said, “He hasn’t got the stomach for the job as is. I just thought I’d make things worse if I held him to it, so I didn’t.”

“Me, I haven’t got the stomach for hard work,” Bembo said.

“Never would have noticed,” Pesaro said in tones that made Bembo wince. Pesaro called out to Almonio: “Powers above, man, pull yourself together.”

“I’m sorry, Sergeant,” the young constable replied. “I can’t help thinking about what happens to the Kaunians when we ship ‘em west. You know it as well as I do. I know you know. Why doesn’t it drive you mad, too?”

“They’re the enemy,” Pesaro said with assurance. “You always hit the enemy as hard as you can. That’s the rules.”

Almonio shook his head. “They’re just people. Men and women and children with blond hair and a funny language out of old times. A few of’em were soldiers, aye, but we don’t do anything special to the Forthwegians who yielded, or not to most of’em, anyway. The women and children sure never hurt us.”

“All Kaunians are out to get us,” Pesaro said. “The Kaunians in Jelgava almost took Tricarico away from us, in case you forgot. They’ve hated us ever since we knocked their dusty old Empire flat all those years ago, and they’ve really hated us since the Six Years’ War. That’s what King Mezentio says, and I think he’s dead right.”

But Almonio only shook his head again. Then he folded his arms on the table, bent forward, and fell asleep. Bembo said, “He’ll be better when he comes around--till the next time he gets drunk, anyhow.”

“Take him back to the barracks and pour him into his cot,” Pesaro said.

“What, by myself?” Bembo said.

Pesaro grunted. He knew Bembo put no more effort into anything than he had to. But at the last minute, the sergeant relented. “Oh, all right. There’s Evodio over there by the wall. Hey, Evodio! Aye, you--who’d you think I was talking to? Come on and give Bembo a hand.”

Evodio gave Bembo two fingers, at any rate: an Algarvian obscene gesture at least as old as any Kaunian ruins. Bembo cheerfully returned it. They draped one of Almonio’s limp arms across each of their shoulders and half dragged, half carried him across the street.

“We ought to leave him here,” Bembo said while they were crossing the cobbles. “Maybe a wagon running over his head would pound some sense into him.”