Harry Turtledove - Jaws of Darkness

Alarm and anger blazed through Bembo. “Oh, that son of a whore!” he whispered fiercely. “That stinking son of a whore! He knows, I bet. If that turd of a Hengist rang the bell on us, he’s going to be one dead Forthwegian.”

But Oraste, whose temper was usually shorter than Bembo’s, shook his head. “I don’t think he knows anything,” he said-not the first time he’d expressed such sentiments about Pesaro. Now, though, he amplified them: “Look. He’s picking on other pairs, too.”

“Probably going to shake down everybody.” Bembo’s voice remained bitter, as if he’d never shaken down anybody. But if Pesaro did have the goods on him, he knew he’d have to fork over: getting your sergeant angry at you wasn’t much different from having the powers below eat you.

Along with the other constables, Bembo and Oraste trooped into Pesaro’s office. They crowded it to the point of overflowing; it was none too big to begin with. Sitting behind his rickety desk, Pesaro seemed almost trapped. “What’s up, Sergeant?” somebody asked-Bembo couldn’t see who.

He had trouble seeing Pesaro, too. But the sergeant never had any trouble making himself heard. He said, “I’ll tell you what’s up. What’s up is, they need more people to hold the lid on over in Eoforwic. There’s a real live nasty Kaunian underground on the loose there, and Forthwegian rebels, and the Unkerlanters have been sending dragons over the place. And so you men are heading west. There’s a ley-line caravan leaving from the depot here an hour before noon. You’re all going to be on it.”

“Eoforwic?” Half the constables in the crowded little office, Bembo among them, howled out the name of the Forthwegian capital in protest. But their hearts weren’t in it-or at least Bembo’s wasn’t. He didn’t much feel like packing up and going, but one Forthwegian town was likely to be much like another.

For any of the constables who didn’t understand that, Sergeant Pesaro spelled it out: “Anybody who doesn’t care for the idea can go put on a different uniform and get shipped a lot farther west than Eoforwic.”

Protest was cut off as if sliced by a knife. Nobody wanted to go fight in Unkerlant. Soldiers coming through Gromheort cursed the constables and envied them their soft jobs. Bembo didn’t envy the soldiers theirs, which were anything but soft.

Into the sudden silence, Sergeant Pesaro said, “That’s better. You will be on Platform Three at the depot by an hour before noon. No excuses-not a chance. Anybody who misses the caravanwill go straight to Unkerlant, and that’s a promise. Don’t bring anything more than you can carry, either. Questions?”

“Why did you pickus, Sergeant?” someone asked.

“Because you’re so sweet,” Pesaro growled. “Any more questions?” After that, there were none. Pesaro waved a hand. “Dismissed.”

Bembo went back into the barracks and started loading a duffel bag. It got full long before he’d gone through everything around his cot. Cursing, he started editing his earthly goods. He needed three tries before finally deciding he could do no better. Even then, the canvas sack left him panting and sweating by the time he’d lugged it to the caravan depot.

“What have you got in there?” demanded the Algarvian who checked his name off a list.

“Your wife,” Bembo snarled. He and the fellow with a clipboard cursed each other till, grunting with effort, he hauled the duffel bag onto the caravan car.

Oraste was already aboard. His sack held about a quarter as much as Bembo’s. “Have you got everything you need?” he asked.

“No,” Bembo said. He would have flung his bag against the wall of the car, but it was too heavy to fling. He eased it over there and flung himself into a seat. Oraste, who laughed at very little, laughed at him. Bembo petulantly glared at his partner till the ley-line caravan glided west out of Gromheort.

Before long, he was in country he’d never seen before. He took a while to realize it; the countryside didn’t look much different from that around Gromheort. Fields with growing wheat and barley slid past his window. So did groves of olives and almonds and citrus fruit. And so did villages full of whitewashed houses, some with red tile roofs, others-more and more as he got farther west-with roofs of thatch.

War had touched the countryside only lightly. Peasants went about their business as they had whenKingPenda ruled Forthweg. As the ley-line caravan passed through towns-it stopped three or four times to pick up more constables-the ruined buildings nobody had bothered to repair stood out much more noticeably, as they did in Gromheort. Once the caravan got into the territory Unkerlant had occupied before Algarve went to war with her, the wreckage got fresher and worse. KingSwemmel ’s men had fought hard every inch of the way.

Eoforwic surprised Bembo, who said, “I didn’t think this miserable excuse for a kingdom had such a big city.”

“It’s still full of Forthwegians,” Oraste replied with a shrug. “Them and Kaunians.” He made as if to spit on the floor of the caravan car, but reluctantly thought better of it. When the car stopped at the depot, he shouldered his sack and hurried out. Bembo’s duffel bag hadn’t got any lighter while it lay there. Swearing, bent almost double under it, he followed his partner onto the platform.

Another cheerful fellow with a clipboard checked his name off a list. Then the other Algarvian said, “We’ve got carriages waiting for you people, to take you to your barracks.”

“Oh, powers above be praised!” Bembo said fervently. “I was afraid I’d have to walk.” He carried his duffel bag with jauntier style, not least because he knew he wouldn’t have to carry it far. They did things with class here in the capital.

That impression lasted till he got to the barracks, which were every bit as crowded and gloomy as the ones in Gromheort. He got an iron cot in the middle of a room full of constables-a room full, mostly, of strangers.

Someone called his name in a loud voice. “Here,” he answered, and then, seeing the pips on the other constables’ shoulder boards, “Here, Sergeant.” He wondered what sort of a new boss he was getting.

“I’m Folicone,” the sergeant said. He was younger and skinnier than Pesaro. Of course, even Bembo was skinnier than Pesaro, so that didn’t say much. Folicone went on, “I’m going to partner you with Delminio here.” He nodded toward a constable whose cot stood only a couple of spaces away from Bembo’s.

“Pleased to meet you,” Delminio said, and clasped wrists with Bembo. He wore bushy red side whiskers, and mustachios and chin beard waxed to spikes.

“Pleased to meet you, too,” Bembo answered. But then he turned to Folicone and said, “Sergeant, Oraste and I, we’ve been partners a long time, you know what I mean?”

“And maybe you will be again, in a while,”SergeantFolicone said. “But I want you with somebody who knows the ropes here while you’re breaking in.”

That made too much sense for Bembo to argue with it. He nodded and said, “No offense,” to Delminio.

“It’s all right,” Delminio answered. “Getting a new partner is a funny business. I know that.” He eyed Bembo the same way Bembo was eyeing him. What sort of partner will you be? “You want to go into the Kaunian quarter with me?” Delminio asked. He hesitated. “You do know about the business with the Kaunians?”

“Oh, aye,” Bembo said, and Delminio visibly relaxed. Bembo added, “I’m not what you’d call happy about it, but what can you do? It’s wartime.”

“Sounds like you’ve got some sense,” Delminio said. SergeantFolicone nodded. Bembo beamed. He’d made a good first impression. Delminio went on, “Just come with me. The quarter isn’t far.”