Rulers of the Darkness

"What do you want me to do about it?" Leudast asked the men. "You can save him for King Swemmel's inspectors when they get here, or else you can knock him over the head yourselves. Makes no difference to me one way or the other."

They dragged Ascovind away. Presently, they came back and he didn't. Leudast had seen the like there a good many times, too. Ascovind should have run off, but he'd probably thought his neighbors wouldn't turn on him when they got the chance. As far as Leudast was concerned, that made him a fool as well as a traitor; he'd probably deserved whatever the other villagers had given him.

And he wouldn't be the only one. Men who'd cursed King Swemmel or who'd just tried to get along; women who'd opened their legs to an Algarvian or to a Grelzer soldier; men and women nobody much liked- aye, the inspectors would be busy here. They'd be busy lots of places. Leudast was glad of his uniform. Nobody could suspect him of treason, not for anything.

The soldiers took as much food as they could find. They had to, to feed themselves. None of the villagers dared say a word. These men in filthy rock-gray who represented King Swemmel could start calling them traitors, too. Leudast shared some of the black bread he got with the prettiest girl he saw. Later, she shared herself with him. They hadn't made the bargain in words, but it was nonetheless real.

Recared's whistle shrilled before sunrise the next morning. "Forward!" he shouted. Forward Leudast went, on toward Herborn.

Eighteen

Bembo was sleeping the deep, restful sleep of a man with a clean conscience- or perhaps of a man with no conscience- when someone shattered that rest by rudely shaking him awake. His eyes flew open. So did his mouth, to curse whoever would perpetrate such an enormity. But the curses died before they saw the light of day: Sergeant Pesaro loomed over him, fat face filled with fury.

"Get your arse out of the sack, you son of a whore," Pesaro snarled. "Come with me this instant- this instant, do you hear?"

"Aye, Sergeant," Bembo answered meekly, and came, even though he wore only his light tunic and kilt and the barracks was chilly. He followed Pesaro into the sergeant's office, where, shivering, he plucked up his always indifferent courage enough to ask, "What- what is it?"

The worst he could think of was that Pesaro had found out how he'd spirited away the parents of Doldasai the Kaunian courtesan. By the fearsome expression on Pesaro's face, this was liable to be even worse than that. Pesaro snatched a leaf of paper off his desk and waved it in Bembo's face. "Do you see this?" he shouted. "Do you?"

"Uh, no, Sergeant," Bembo said. "Not unless you hold it still." Thus reminded, Pesaro did. Bembo read the first few lines. His eyes widened. "By the powers above," he whispered. "My leave's come through."

Pesaro's glare grew more baleful yet. "Aye, it has, you stinking sack of moldy mushrooms," he ground out. "Your leave has come through. Nobody else's has, not in this whole barracks, not in this whole stinking town. Not even mine. Powers below eat you, you get to go back to Tricarico for ten mortal days and enjoy yourself in civilization while the rest of us stay stuck with the fornicating Forthwegians."

He looked about to tear the precious paper to shreds. To forestall such a disaster, Bembo snatched it out of his hands. "Thank you, Sergeant!" he exclaimed. "I feel like a man who just won the lottery." That was no exaggeration; he knew how unlikely leaves were. All but babbling, he went on, "I'm sure yours will come through very soon. Not just sure- positive." Aye, he was babbling. He didn't care.

"Ha!" Pesaro tossed his head in magnificent, jowl-wobbling contempt. "Go on, get out of my sight. I'll be jealous of you every minute you're gone- and if you're even one minute late coming back to duty, you'll pay. Oh, how you'll pay."

Nodding, doing his best not to gloat, Bembo fled. He dressed. He packed. He collected all his back pay. He hurried to the ley-line caravan depot and waited for an eastbound caravan. He'd just scrambled aboard it when he realized he hadn't bothered waiting for breakfast. If that didn't speak to his desperation for escape, he didn't know what did.

Almost all the Algarvians in his caravan car were soldiers who'd got leave from the endless grinding war against Unkerlant. Some of them, seeing his constable's uniform, cursed him for a coward and a slacker. He'd heard that before, whenever soldiers passed through Gromheort. Here, he had to grin and bear it- either that or pick a fight and get beaten to a pulp.

But some of the soldiers, instead of reviling him, just called him a lucky dog. They shared food with him, and fiery Unkerlanters spirits, too. By the time the ley-line caravan had got well into Algarve, Bembo leaned back in his seat with a glazed look on his face.