Harry Turtledove - Into the Darkness

“Do I look like a fool?” Saffa asked, which made Bembo go through another pantomime routine. Her laugh showed very sharp, white, even teeth. He wondered if she’d finally chosen to go out with him in hope of a good time (either vertical or horizontal) or in the expectation of sinking teeth and claws into him later on. That might mean a good time for her, but he didn’t think he would enjoy it.

To keep from thinking about it, he said, “Good to see Tricarico lit up again at night.”

“Aye, it is,” Saffa agreed. “We’re too far north for any dragon from Lagoas to reach us here, and we’ve beaten our other enemies.” Pride rang in her voice. She glanced at Bembo with more warmth than he was used to seeing from her. “And you helped, spotting those cursed Kaunians with their dyed hair.”

Before Bembo could go on for a while about what an alert, clever fellow he was, the waiter brought supper, which might have been just as well. Saffa had trout, Bembo strips of duck breast in a wine-based sauce. He didn’t usually eat such a splendid meal; he couldn’t usually afford such a splendid meal. Since he could tonight, he made the most of it. He and Saffa emptied another bottle of wine during supper.

Afterwards, as they walked to the theater, she let him put an arm around her shoulder. A few steps later, she let him slide it down to her waist. But when, as if by accident, his hand brushed the bottom of her breast, her heel came down hard on his big toe, also as if by accident.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured in tones that couldn’t have meant anything but, Don’t push your luck. With a good deal of wine in him, Bembo promptly did push his luck, and as promptly got stepped on again. After that, he concluded Saffa might have been dropping a hint.

At the theater, the usher eyed Saffa appreciatively but gave what passed for Bembo’s best tunic and kilt a fishy stare. Still, Bembo had tickets entitling him and Saffa to a pair of medium-good seats. Whatever the usher’s opinion of his wardrobe, the fellow had no choice but to guide him down to where he belonged. “Enjoy the production, sir—and you, milady,” the young man said, bowing over Saffa’s hand.

Bembo tipped him, more to get rid of him than for any other reason. Saffa let the constable slip an arm over her shoulder again. This time, he had the sense not to go exploring further. The house lights dimmed. Actors pranced out on stage, declaiming.

“I knew it would be another costume drama,” Bembo whispered.

“They’re all the rage these days,” Saffa whispered back. Her breath was warm and moist in his ear.

Up on the stage, actors and actresses in blond wigs played imperial Kaunians, all of them plotting ways and means to keep the dauntless, virile Algarvians out of the Empire—and the women falling into clinches with the Algarvian chieftains every chance they got. The story might have been taken straight from one of the historical romances Bembo had been devouring lately. Along with the rest of the audience, he whooped when a Kaunian noblewoman’s tunic and trousers came flying over the screen that hid her bed from the spectators.

Afterwards, Saffa asked, “Do you suppose it was really like that?”

“Must have been,” Bembo answered. “If it wasn’t, how would we ever have beaten the cursed Kaunians?”

“I don’t know,” the sketch artist admitted. She yawned, not too theatrically. “You’d better take me home. We both have to work in the morning.”

“Did you have to remind me?” Bembo said, but he knew she was right.

Outside her flat, she let him kiss her—actually, she kissed him. When his hands wandered, she stretched and purred like a cat. Then he tried to get one under her kilt, and she twisted away from him. “Maybe one of these nights,” she said. “Maybe—but not tonight.” She kissed him on the end of the nose, then slipped into her flat and had the door barred before Bembo could make a move to follow her.

He wasn’t so angry as he thought he should have been. Even if he hadn’t bedded her, he’d come closer than he’d expected he—would—and she hadn’t clawed him too badly after all. Not a perfect evening (had it been a perfect evening, she would have reached under his kilt), but not bad, either.

He still looked happy the next morning, so much so that Sergeant Pesaro leered. “What were you doing?” he said, in tones suggesting he already knew the broad outlines but wanted the juicy details. He made a formidable interrogator, whether grilling criminals or constables.

Since Bembo had no juicy details to give him, and since Saffa would kill him or make him wish she had if he invented some, all he said was, “A gentleman goes out of his way to protect the reputation of a lady.”

“Since when are you a gentleman? For that matter, since when is Saffa a lady?” Pesaro wasn’t trying to get her to flip up her kilt, so he could say what he pleased. Bembo just shrugged. Pesaro muttered under his breath, then went on, “All right, if you won’t talk, you won’t. I can’t beat it out of you, the way I can with the ordinary lags. Anyhow, there’s a good job of work ahead for the force today.”

Ah?” Bembo’s ears came to attention. So, rather lackadaisically, did the rest of him. “What’s toward, Sergeant?”

“We’re going to round up all the cursed Kaunians in town.” Pesaro spoke with considerable satisfaction. “Order came in just after midnight by crystal from Trapani, from the Ministry for Protection of the Realm. Everybody’s been having kittens since you caught the blonds dyeing their hair. King Mezentio’s decided we can’t take the chance of letting ’em run around loose any more, so we won’t. They’ll be pulling ’em in all over Algarve.”

“Well, that’s pretty good,” Bembo said. “I bet we got rid of a lot of spies that way. Probably should have done it back at the start of the war, if anybody wants to know what I think. If we had done it back at the start of the war, my guess is the stinking Jelgavans wouldn’t have come half so close to taking Tricarico.”

“Nobody cares what you guess,” Pesaro said. But then he checked himself; after Bembo had discovered the Kaunians dyeing their hair, that might be less true now than a few weeks before. Grimacing at the absurdity of having to take Bembo seriously, the sergeant went on, “No matter when they should have done it, they are doing it now. We’ve got lists of known Kaunians, and we’re going to send constables out in pairs to make sure they don’t give us a tough time. Or if they try that, they’ll be sorry.” He folded a meaty hand into a fist.

Bembo nodded. Inside, he was laughing. Pesaro sounded tough, as if he’d be hauling in Kaunians himself instead of sending out ordinary constables like Bembo to do the job. The sergeant’s comment sparked another thought, an important one: “Who are you pairing with me?”

“Have to check the roster.” Sergeant Pesaro ran a fat finger down it. “I’ve got you with Oraste. Does that suit?”

“Aye,” Bembo said. “He’s not one to back away from trouble. And we’ve worked together before, in a manner of speaking—he helped me bring in that Balozio, remember?”

“I didn’t, no, but I do now that you remind me of it,” Pesaro said. The doors to the station house swung open. In came Oraste, as broad through the shoulders as a Forthwegian. “Just the man I’m looking for!” Pesaro exclaimed happily, and explained to Oraste what he’d just told Bembo.

Oraste listened, scratched his head, nodded, and said, “Give us the list, Sergeant, and we’ll get at it. You ready, Bembo?”

“Aye.” Bembo wasn’t so ready as all that, but didn’t see how he could say anything else. He was glad to have Oraste at his side precisely because Oraste never backed away from anyone or anything. Oraste didn’t back away from duty, either.