Harry Turtledove - Into the Darkness

Martusino hesitated for a split second. Before he could give a false name, Bembo hefted the club. Martusino abruptly decided playing the game by the rules would be a good idea. He answered the warder’s questions without backtalk after that. Bembo had questions to answer, too, some of them duplicating the ones Pesaro had asked. When they were over, Frontino took a small stick out of the desk drawer—Bembo got another glimpse of that interesting book cover—and aimed it at Martusino. At his nod, Bembo undid the manacles. The constable also held his club at the ready.

“Strip off,” the warder told Martusino. “Come on, come on—everything. You know the drill, so don’t make me tell you anything twice.”

Martusino shed shoes and stockings, then pulled off tunic, kilt, and finally drawers. “Skin and bones,” Bembo said disdainfully. “Nothing but skin and bones.” The prisoner gave him a dirty look, but seemed to think another comment would earn him another clout. He was right.

Frontino rose, gathered up the belongings, and stuffed them into a cloth bag. Then he threw Martusino a tunic, a kilt, and cloth slippers all striped in black and white—lockup garb. Sullenly, the prisoner put it on. It didn’t fit very well. He knew better than to complain. “The judge decides you’re innocent, you’ll get your own junk back then,” the warder said. He and Bembo both grinned; they knew how unlikely that was. He went on, “Otherwise, come see me when you get out of Reform. I may have some trouble remembering where I stashed it, but I expect I will if you ask me nice.” If you pay me off, he meant.

Helpfully, Bembo said, “Pesaro thinks they may just up and hang him this time.”

Martusino scowled. The warder shrugged. “Well, in that case he probably won’t be coming back for it. It won’t go to waste.” Bembo nodded. In that case, Frontino would keep what he wanted and sell the rest. Warders rarely died poor.

“They won’t hang me,” Martusino said, though he sounded more hopeful than confident.

“Come on.” Frontino unlocked the big iron lock on the outer door to the lockup. “Go on in.” Martusino obeyed. Bembo and the warder watched him through the barred window. The inner door had a sorcerous lock. The warder mumbled the words to the releasing spell. The inner door flew open. Martusino went in among the rest of the prisoners awaiting their punishment. Frontino mumbled again. The door slammed shut.

“What would happen if a prisoner who knew some magecraft went to work on that inner door?” Bembo asked.

“It’s supposed to be proof against anyone below a second-rank mage,” the warder answered, “and fancy mages don’t go into the ordinary lockup—you’d best believe they don’t, Bembo my boy. We have special holes for them.”

“I’ve heard fancy whores say things like that,” Bembo remarked.

Frontino snorted and gave him a shot in the ribs with an elbow. “I didn’t know you were such a funny fellow,” he said.

“I don’t want too many people to know,” Bembo said. “If they did, I’d have to go up on the stage and get rich and famous, and I don’t suppose I could stand that. I’d rather stay a simple constable.”

“You’re pretty simple, all right,” Frontino agreed.

Bembo laughed, but not the way the warder thought he did: he’d expected Frontino to say something like that, and was amused to be right. Something else crossed his mind. “Say, what was that you were reading?” he asked. “It looked pretty interesting.”

“Talk about your fancy whores,” the warder said, and pulled the book out of the desk. When Bembo could tear his eyes away from that arresting cover illustration, he discovered the romance was called Putinai: the Emperor’s Lady. Frontino gave it his most enthusiastic recommendation: “She does more screwing in a week than an army of cabinetmakers could in a year.”

“Sounds good.” Bembo read the fine print under the title: “Based on the exciting true history of the turbulent Kaunian Empire.” He shook his head. “Kaunians have always been filthy people, I guess.”

“I’d say so,” the warder agreed. “Putinai does everything, and loves every bit of it, too. You can borrow the book after I’d done with it —if you promise to give it back.”

“I will, I will,” Bembo assured him, with something less than perfect sincerity.

Frontino must have recognized that, for he said, “Or you could spring for one yourself. Seems like every third romance these days is about how vile the Kaunian Empire was and how the bold, fierce Algarvian mercenaries finally overthrew it. Our ancestors were tough bastards, if half what you read is true.”

“Aye,” Bembo said. “Well, maybe I will buy one. A little extra cash in my pockets wouldn’t hurt, though.”

“Maybe we can take care of that.” Frontino got out the bag in which he’d stored Martusino’s clothes and effects, and took from it the burglar’s belt pouch. He and Bembo divided up the silver and the couple of small goldpieces they found inside.

“I get the odd coin,” Bembo said, scooping it up. “Pesaro’s going to want his cut, too.” Frontino nodded. That was how things worked in Tricarico.

Dragons spiraled high above Tirgoviste harbor—above all the harbors of Sibiu—keeping watch against Algarvian attack from the air or from the sea. They reassured Commander Cornelu whenever he looked up into the heavens. No doubt mages behind closed doors also probed for any disturbance in the ley lines that would mean an Algarvian fleet was setting forth against the island kingdom. But, because the mages were hidden away, Cornelu had to assume they were on the job. The dragons he could see.

Today, he couldn’t see them so well as he would have liked: mist and low, thin clouds made them almost disappear. The weather, which would only worsen as autumn gave way to winter, would make it harder for the dragons to give early warning and would put a greater burden on the mages’ shoulders.

Cornelu frowned. Magic was all very well, but he wanted the eyes in the sky to be as effective as they could, too. Seamen who took chances did not often live to take very many. That held equally true for fishermen in sailboats, sailors in cruisers skimming along the ley lines, and leviathan riders like himself.

Musing on the wisdom of taking few chances, Cornelu tripped on a cobblestone and almost rolled down the hill into the sea. Tirgoviste rose swiftly from the shore; some of the bright-painted shops set on hillsides showed noticeably more wall on the side nearer the Narrow Sea than on the other.

A wine merchant had a QUITTING BUSINESS banner stretched across his window. Cornelu ducked in to see what bargains he might pick up. Sibiu was a merchant kingdom; lying where it did, it could scarcely be anything else. The scent of a bargain fired Cornelu’s blood hardly less than the scent of his wife’s favorite perfume.

He found few bargains in the wine shop, only empty shelves. “Why did you put the banner up?” he asked the merchant.

“Where am I going to find any more stock?” the fellow answered bitterly. “Almost all I sold were Algarvian vintages, and the war’s blazed our trade there right through the heart. Oh, I can get in a few bottles from Valmiera and Jelgava, but that’s all I can get: a few. They’re expensive as all getout, too—expensive for me to buy, and too expensive to sell very fast. Might as well pack it in and try another line of work. I couldn’t do worse, believe me.”

“King Mezentio would be lording it over us if we didn’t do something about him,” Cornelu said. “We almost waited too long in the Six Years’ War. We don’t dare take that chance again.”

“You can talk like that—King Burebistu pays your bills.” The wine merchant’s scowl was gloomier than the weather. “Who will pay mine, when the war cuts me off from my source of supply? You know as well as I do: nobody.”