Sasso hadn’t finished. “From Tricarico, the following constables have been selected for the aforementioned service. . . .” He pulled a list from a breast pocket and began reading names. Pesaro’s was on it, which explained why he was irate. And then, a moment later, Bembo heard his own name. Sasso went through the whole list, then continued, “Men named here will report in uniform to the caravan depot at noon tomorrow for transportation to your new assignment. Bring all necessary constabulary gear, but no more personal effects than will fit into your belt pouches and one small pack. I know you will acquit Tricarico well, men.” He spun on his heel and marched away without so much as calling for questions.
“Tomorrow?” Bembo howled. His was far from the only cry of amazement and dismay. He raised his hands to the uncaring sky. “How can we go tomorrow? Powers above, how can we go at all?”
“Southern Unkerlant is lovely in the wintertime,” said a constable who was staying in Tricarico. He kissed his fingertips. “So white! So fair! And winter there doesn’t last more than three-fourths of the year.”
“Your wife is lovely in a whorehouse bed,” Bembo snarled. He kissed his fingertips, too. “So white! So fair! And your daughter the same. They both charge more than they’re worth, though.”
With a curse, the other constable hurled himself at Bembo. Normally no braver than he had to be, Bembo was ready to brawl. Before either of them could throw more than a punch or two, though, their comrades got between them. “When you come home, wretch, our friends will settle where we can meet,” the other constable said.
“You haven’t got any friends,” Bembo retorted. “Ask your wife to help. She has dozens. Hundreds.”
Sergeant Pesaro shoved Bembo away before the fight could flare again. “Let it go,” he said. “Getting in trouble won’t keep you off the caravan.” Bembo hadn’t thought of that and wished he had. Pesaro went on, “We aren’t going to Unkerlant, anyhow. Some other poor whoresons get stuck with that. We’re heading for Forthweg. The weather will be better, anyhow.”
“Huzzah,” Bembo said sourly. He cocked his head to one side. “How do you know where we’re going?”
Pesaro only smiled. After a moment, Bembo realized it was a foolish question. Pesaro was fat and slow and a long way from young. If he didn’t know things, what good was he? He thumped Bembo on the shoulder. “Go on. Go home. Get ready. We’re stuck with it. If you’re not on the caravan car with me tomorrow, you’re a deserter during wartime.” He sliced a thumb across his throat.
Thus encouraged, Bembo went back to his flat. Packing didn’t take long, not with the limits Captain Sasso had imposed. He drank his dinner. For good measure, he drank his supper, too. With nothing better to do, he went to bed early.
He woke with a pounding head and a taste in his mouth like the river downstream from the sewage works. A glass of wine helped dull both complaints. He still felt lethargic and abused, but he’d felt that way before. Shouldering the few belongings he could bring, he made for the depot.
He got there at the same time as his frequent partner, Oraste. Pesaro checked off both their names. Oraste was quiet and looked somewhat the worse for wear, too. Maybe he’d spent his last night in Tricarico the same way Bembo had.
Bembo was climbing up into the caravan car when someone--a woman--called, “Wait!” Saffa came running up. She threw herself into his arms and gave him a kiss that made him forget his headache. Then she slipped away and said, “There! Is that because I’m sorry you’re going or because I’m glad? You’ll never know.” She headed back toward the constabulary station, putting everything she had into her walk.
“Don’t stand there gaping with your tongue hanging out,” Pesaro told Bembo. “Go on; get aboard.” Bembo didn’t move till Saffa was out of sight. Then, as if a spell were broken, he shook himself and obeyed.
But for the constables from Tricarico, the ley-line caravan carried no passengers. As soon as the last man climbed into the car--with curses from Pesaro for being the last--the caravan began its long glide west. The Bradano Mountains sank below the horizon. Wheatfields, meadows with cattle and sheep grazing in them, vineyards, and groves of almonds and olives and citrus fruit slid past outside the windows. Before long, Bembo got into a dice game and stopped worrying about the scenery.
Just after noon, the caravan stopped in a medium-sized town along the ley line. Half a dozen irate-looking men in constable’s uniform filed aboard. “Hello!” Bembo said. “Misery loves company, looks like.”
The caravan stopped several times during the afternoon. At each stop, another contingent of disgruntled constables got on. By the time the caravan began to near what had been the Forthwegian border, all the cars were full. Bembo doubted there was a happy man in any of them.
Pesaro pointed out the window. “Look at all the behemoths feeding there. And we saw even more unicorns a little while ago.”
“Behemoths. Unicorns. Constables.” Bembo shrugged. “All animals that get ridden off to war whether they want to or not.”
At what had been the border with Forthweg, the caravan halted again. By then, lamps--dim ones, in case the Unkerlanters managed to sneak a few dragons through--were shining in every car. An Algarvian army officer bounded up into the car in which Bembo rode. “On behalf of his Majesty, King Mezentio, I thank you for entering his service,” he said. “With you to patrol the towns and villages of Forthweg, we can use the soldiers who were on garrison duty as soldiers should be used in the fighting. If constables are constables, then soldiers can be soldiers.”
That sounded good. It even impressed Bembo--till he remembered that the officer was as far behind the lines as he was. “Where in blazes are we bound, anyway?” he asked. He saw no need to treat the officer as he would have a superior in his service, in spite of the fellow’s fancy talk.
A scowl said the officer realized that, too. But he answered mildly enough: “Constables in this car will get off at Gromheort, not far from here.” He coughed. “Some of them may be fortunate they are replacing the army there and not elsewhere. On the other hand, army discipline might improve them.”
Bembo did not rise to that. One narrow escape was enough. The caravan slid along the ley line toward Gromheort. He tried to remember if he’d ever heard of the place. He didn’t think so. It would have been under Algarvian rule before the Six Years’ War, so it might not prove too bad, but he wouldn’t have bet more than a copper on that.
Nor did his first glimpse, by moonlight, send him into raptures. The depot was battered, and about one building in four between it and the barracks where the constables would spend the night had been wrecked. “The Forthwegians fought hard here,” explained the officer, who guided them to the barracks.
“Why haven’t they repaired it since?” Bembo asked, safely anonymous in the darkness.
“They have,” the army officer answered. “If you think it’s bad now, you should have seen it just after we took it.” He pointed ahead, to a low, squat building that once must have housed cattle or Forthwegian soldiers. “Go through the curtains one man at a time, to keep light from spilling out.”
Inside, the barracks were as bad as Bembo had expected. After a day spent traveling across northern Algarve, he didn’t care. He hurried to a pallet, set his pack under his head in lieu of a pillow (he labored under no delusions about his fellow constables, who were bound to have some light-fingered souls among them), and went to sleep.
Next morning, glum-looking Forthwegians served up bread and olive oil and harsh red wine. Another Algarvian army officer came in and distributed maps of Gromheort to those constables who would patrol it. “Things are pretty quiet,” he told the newcomers. “Just keep ‘em that way and everything will be fine.” He offered no suggestions on how to achieve that laudable end.