Darkness Descending

Balastro sighed. “I was hoping you--ah, that is, of course, King Shazli-- might make up ... his mind more quickly, but I suppose it can’t be helped. All right, your Excellency, I don’t suppose I can complain. But tell your generals and clanfathers not to take too long deciding, because this dragon is going to fly with you or without you . . . and Algarve will remember which.”

“I understand,” Hajjaj said. Unkerlant would not let Zuwayza out of the war; Algarve insisted Zuwayza go in deeper. Trapped, Hajjaj thought, not for the first time. Like all the rest of the world, we’re trapped.

Bembo and Oraste walked warily along the paths that meandered through the biggest park in Gromheort. The moon had set an hour before; they had nothing but starlight by which to see. No braver than he had to be, Bembo carried his stick in his hand, not on his belt. “Anything could be lurking in here,” the Algarvian constable complained. “Anything at all.”

“I’m not worried about anything” Oraste answered. “Anybody, now--that’s a different business.” His head kept turning now this way, now that.

So did Bembo’s. The bushes by the edges of the paths were shaggy and untrimmed; dead grass from the winter before remained tall enough for people to hide in it. “You’d think they’d do a better job of keeping this place up,” Bembo said.

Oraste laughed. “If they haven’t got the silver to repair most of their miserable buildings, what are the odds they’re going to cut the grass?”

That made an unpleasant amount of sense to Bembo. Even so, he said, “How are we supposed to catch anybody in this miserable place if they don’t?”

With a shrug, Oraste answered, “As if anybody cares whether we catch these worthless buggers, unless they bother Algarvians. But if the bad actors know we walk through the park, they won’t be so likely to roost in it.”

“Huzzah,” Bembo said petulantly, and then, as he heard a rustle from the dead grass, “What’s that?” Startlement made his voice go high and shrill.

“I don’t know.” Oraste, by contrast, sounded quiet and determined. He didn’t have a lot of brains, he had no imagination at all, but he was a terrific fellow to have at your back in a brawl. He stepped off the path and moved purposefully toward the sound. “But we’d better find out, eh?”

“Aye,” Bembo agreed in hollow tones. As much to keep up his own courage as for any other reason, he went on, “Any whoreson out to ambush us wouldn’t make so much noise, would he?”

“Here’s hoping,” Oraste answered, which did little to reassure Bembo. The other constable added, “Now shut up.”

However rude that was, it was good advice. Like Oraste, Bembo tried to step as lightly as he could, though he could hardly help making some noise while walking through thick, dry grass. The rustling ahead grew louder as the constables drew nearer. The breeze picked up. It made the grass rustle, too. With luck, it helped mask the sounds Bembo and Oraste were making.

Bembo sniffed. He was no bloodhound, but any constable would have recognized that smell. Fear ebbed. “Just some cursed drunkard who’s gone and puked himself,” he said.

“Aye.” Almost invisible in the darkness, Oraste nodded. “Ought to beat the son of a whore to within an inch of his life for the turn he gave us. Stinking old Forthwegian bum.”

After another couple of steps, Bembo smelled spilled wine as well as puke. He

Darkness Descending

thought about putting away his stick and taking his bludgeon off his belt instead. Sergeant Pesaro wouldn’t mind if he and Oraste did work out their alarm on a noisy drunk. Pesaro would just regret not being here to share the fun. Bembo pointed. “There he is.”

“I see him,” Oraste said. “Miserable white-haired bugger--why didn’t he die twenty years ago?”

Along with Oraste, Bembo stood over the drunk. He sniffed again, then let out a theatrical sigh of relief. “Powers above be praised, at least he hasn’t gone and shit his trousers.” He had to listen to his own words to realize what he was seeing. “He’s not a white-haired old Forthwegian. He’s a blond!”

“Well, curse me if you aren’t right,” Oraste exclaimed. He laughed out loud, the most joyous sound Bembo had ever heard from him. “Now nobody’ll care at all if we kick him to death. Let’s do it.”

“I don’t know . . .” Bembo had no great appetite for mayhem. All he wanted to do was get out of the park, finish his beat, and go back to the barracks so he could climb onto his cot again. “Let’s just leave him here. He’s so far gone, he won’t even know we’re stomping him, and the head he’ll have in the morning’ll hurt worse than a boot in the ribs.”

“No,” Oraste growled. “He’s not where he’s supposed to be, is he? You bet your arse he’s not--all these Kaunians are supposed to be in their own district. And if we catch ‘em outside when they aren’t working, they’re fair game, right? He looks like he’s working hard, don’t he?” He laughed.