Out of the Darkness

“Good advice,” Talsu said. “Let me see the patterns for the style he picked out, please.” Valamo passed him the book. He’d never tried anything so complicated, not on his own, but he thought he could do it. He went into the back of the shop to see exactly what fabric he had available, then settled down and got to work.

Bembo hadn’t wanted to come back to duty on night patrol, but he didn’t dare complain. From Captain Sasso’s point of view, he supposed putting him here on the schedule made sense. Sasso already had a solid rotation of constables. Nobody much cared to go out at night, so why not give the newcomer that shift?

I’ll tell you why not, Bembo thought. If I trip over a high cobblestone I didn’t see in the dark and break my leg again, I’ll be very annoyed. But he couldn’t say that to Sasso, for fear the captain would tell him he couldn’t do the job.

Six years had gone by, near enough, since he’d had the night shift when the war was new. Things had been pretty quiet then, and were pretty quiet now, for the same reason: a curfew was in force. Kuusaman patrols also tramped the streets. Bembo had had to show them his badge once already tonight. He didn’t care for that, but liked the idea of getting blazed even less.

Tricarico wasn’t black now, as it had been when the Derlavaian War was new. No enemy dragons flew overhead, ready to drop eggs on the city. But more than a few enemy dragons now ate their stupid heads off on Algarvian territory. If Bembo’s people ever thought of rising up against their occupiers. . He shuddered. The idea of suicide had never appealed to him.

He strode up the street toward the stump of the old Kaunian column in the center of town. The column itself had come down while he was in Forthweg- razed by the Algarvians, not by enemy action. Not much from the Kaunian past survived in Tricarico these days: not much in all of Algarve, from what he’d heard. The stump was bare, plain marble, about as tall as a man. The reliefs above it? Gone.

Beyond the remains of the column, somebody moved. Bembo’s stick was in his hand on the instant. “Who goes?” he said sharply.

“It’s only me,” a woman’s voice answered. “You wouldn’t do anything to bother me, now would you?”

“Who the blazes-?” Bembo burst out. But the voice was familiar. “Fiametta, is that you?”

“Well, who else would it be, sweetheart?” she said as she came around what was left of the column. Her tunic might have been painted on; her kilt barely covered her shapely backside. “Bembo?” she asked, stopping short in surprise when she recognized him. “I thought you were dead!”

“Not quite,” Bembo said. “What are you doing out after curfew? You ought to know better than that.”

“What do you think I was doing?” Fiametta twitched her hips. “I was working, that’s what. I’ll go along home like a good little girl, I promise.”

Bembo barked laughter. “You haven’t been a good little girl since you got too big to make messes in your drawers. I caught you out right about here back when the war started, remember? I ought to run you in.”

“You wouldn’t do that!” the courtesan exclaimed in dismay.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Bembo said. “You know what time it is. You’re out late. You can’t very well say I beat your door down and dragged you out of bed.”

“Have a heart, Bembo!” Fiametta said. Bembo just stood there, looking official. The woman muttered something under her breath. He couldn’t make out what, which was probably just as well. She sighed. “Look, suppose I give you some, too? Will you leave me alone then? It wouldn’t be the first time, you know.”

He didn’t even think about Saffa. Constables and courtesans made bargains like this all the time. “Now you’re talking,” he said.

They found an alley where the street lights didn’t reach. When Bembo came out a few minutes later, he was whistling. Fiametta, he supposed, headed to her home, or maybe just to another paying job. He wondered what she would do if she ran into a Kuusaman patrol. From everything he’d seen, the Kuusamans didn’t make deals like that.

The rest of his shift passed less enjoyably, but he didn’t have to do much. That suited him fine. The sun climbed up over the Bradano Mountains. He met his relief on the streets, then made his way back to the constabulary station to check out. As he neared the stairs, a skinny old man came up the street from the other direction. The fellow called his name.

“Aye, that’s me,” Bembo answered. “Who are you? Curfew doesn’t end for another hour or so.” If this fellow had no good explanation for being out and about, he’d grab him and haul him in. That would show people what a diligent fellow he was.

“You don’t know me?” The skinny man looked down at himself. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. There was more of me when we saw each other last.”