With a shrug, Oraste answered, “As if anybody cares whether we catch these worthless buggers, unless they bother Algarvians. But if the bad actors know we walk through the park, they won’t be so likely to roost in it.”
“Huzzah,” Bembo said petulantly, and then, as he heard a rustle from the dead grass, “What’s that?” Startlement made his voice go high and shrill.
“I don’t know.” Oraste, by contrast, sounded quiet and determined. He didn’t have a lot of brains, he had no imagination at all, but he was a terrific fellow to have at your back in a brawl. He stepped off the path and moved purposefully toward the sound. “But we’d better find out, eh?”
“Aye,” Bembo agreed in hollow tones. As much to keep up his own courage as for any other reason, he went on, “Any whoreson out to ambush us wouldn’t make so much noise, would he?”
“Here’s hoping,” Oraste answered, which did little to reassure Bembo. The other constable added, “Now shut up.”
However rude that was, it was good advice. Like Oraste, Bembo tried to step as lightly as he could, though he could hardly help making some noise while walking through thick, dry grass. The rustling ahead grew louder as the constables drew nearer. The breeze picked up. It made the grass rustle, too. With luck, it helped mask the sounds Bembo and Oraste were making.
Bembo sniffed. He was no bloodhound, but any constable would have recognized that smell. Fear ebbed. “Just some cursed drunkard who’s gone and puked himself,” he said.
“Aye.” Almost invisible in the darkness, Oraste nodded. “Ought to beat the son of a whore to within an inch of his life for the turn he gave us. Stinking old Forthwegian bum.”
After another couple of steps, Bembo smelled spilled wine as well as puke. He thought about putting away his stick and taking his bludgeon off his belt instead. Sergeant Pesaro wouldn’t mind if he and Oraste did work out their alarm on a noisy drunk. Pesaro would just regret not being here to share the fun. Bembo pointed. “There he is.”
“I see him,” Oraste said. “Miserable white-haired bugger--why didn’t he die twenty years ago?”
Along with Oraste, Bembo stood over the drunk. He sniffed again, then let out a theatrical sigh of relief. “Powers above be praised, at least he hasn’t gone and shit his trousers.” He had to listen to his own words to realize what he was seeing. “He’s not a white-haired old Forthwegian. He’s a blond!”
“Well, curse me if you aren’t right,” Oraste exclaimed. He laughed out loud, the most joyous sound Bembo had ever heard from him. “Now nobody’ll care at all if we kick him to death. Let’s do it.”
“I don’t know . . .” Bembo had no great appetite for mayhem. All he wanted to do was get out of the park, finish his beat, and go back to the barracks so he could climb onto his cot again. “Let’s just leave him here. He’s so far gone, he won’t even know we’re stomping him, and the head he’ll have in the morning’ll hurt worse than a boot in the ribs.”
“No,” Oraste growled. “He’s not where he’s supposed to be, is he? You bet your arse he’s not--all these Kaunians are supposed to be in their own district. And if we catch ‘em outside when they aren’t working, they’re fair game, right? He looks like he’s working hard, don’t he?” He laughed.
But the Kaunian, however unsanitary he was, wasn’t so far gone as Bembo had thought. As Oraste drew back his foot for the first kick, the blond opened his eyes and sat up. He spoke in Kaunian, a line of poetry Bembo recognized and understood because he’d had to memorize it: “ ‘The barbarians are at the gates.’ “
“Shut up, fool,” Oraste said, and did kick him. An instant later--Bembo didn’t see how--his partner was lying in the grass. With a curse, Oraste scrambled to his feet. He hauled off and kicked the Kaunian again. Again, he went sprawling, too, this time with a howl of pain.
The Kaunian, who was having trouble staying in a seated position, spoke again, this time in understandable if slurred Algarvian: “Leave me alone and I will extend you the same privilege.”
“Leave you alone?” Oraste got up once more. “Powers below eat me if I will, you louse-ridden ...”
“Wait!” Bembo grabbed Oraste before his partner could try to kick the drunk again. A light had gone on in his mind, however dark his surroundings remained. “I think he’s a mage.”
“A mage, a stage, an age, an outrage,” the drunken Kaunian said, still in Algarvian. “If I were sober, I could do great things. If I were sober, I could . . . could . . .” He brought his hands up to his face and began to weep. Through his sobs, he went on, “But it is not enough. It could not be enough. Nothing could be enough.” He looked up at the constables. “For you, nothing is enough. Do you wonder that I am not sober?”
“Let’s get out of here,” Bembo whispered urgently. “I don’t want to tangle with a mage, even a drunk one, even a lousy one. Tangling with mages uses up a lot of constables.”
Oraste let Bembo lead him a few paces away, but then shrugged off his comrade. “That Kaunian sorcerously assaulted me,” he declared, as if before a panel of judges. “He has to pay the price.” He whirled around and pointed his stick at the drunken blond sorcerer.
But the Kaunian wasn’t there. Bembo stared. It wasn’t as if the fellow were hiding in the dead grass; it was as if he’d never been there. Only the lingering stink of vomit and Bembo’s memory said anything different.
Oraste said, “Nothing’s enough for us Algarvians, eh? I’ll show that blond what nothing’s all about.” And he blazed at the place where the Kaunian had been--the place where, Bembo realized, the Kaunian still had to be.
A shriek said his beam had found the mark. An instant later, the Kaunian reappeared--wounded, he couldn’t keep holding the masking spell. Oraste blazed him again. The blond jerked as if struck by lightning when the beam bit him.
With what was plainly dying effort, the mage pointed toward the two constables and began intoning a spell in Kaunian. Bembo understood only a couple of words of it, but knew it had to be a curse. Now he blazed at the drunken mage, too, and his beam caught the Kaunian in the face. With a last groan, the mage sank back and lay very still.
“That’s the way,” Oraste said, and thumped him on the back. “See? You are good for something after all.”
“Oh, shut up,” Bembo answered. “You think I want to go around with a wizard’s last curse on me, you’re daft. But it never would have happened if you’d let him alone in the first place.”
“He deserved what he got,” Oraste said. “Powers above, he deserved more than he got.”
“We’ll have to tell Pesaro about it when we get back to the barracks,” Bembo said. His stomach was lurching unpleasantly. He’d never killed a man before.
Oraste let out a couple of grunts probably meant for laughter. “Pesaro’ll give us each a shot of brandy, tell us we did good, and put us to bed--and you know it as well as I do, too.”
He was probably right. But Bembo’s stomach did another few lurches. Now that he thought about it--something he tried not to do--he’d sent plenty of Kaunians off to certain death. Blazing the drunken mage still felt different. He couldn’t pretend here, as he did there, that he really hadn’t had anything to do with their deaths. Blazing a man in the face left no room for doubt about what happened.
On the other hand, the Kaunian mage might--would--have harmed Bembo and Oraste if Bembo hadn’t blazed him. The Kaunians he hauled out of villages or off the streets of Gromheort hadn’t done anything to him or to anybody else.
Bembo shook his head. Thinking about it was much too complicated--and too unpleasant, too. “Let’s go,” he said. “We’ll get out of here, we’ll finish our beat, and then we’ll go back to the barracks. The carrion there won’t be going anywhere till somebody comes and picks it up after we report in.”