“Who cares, the stinking backstabbers?” his cousin answered. “As far as I’m concerned, the Algarvians can cut their throats to make sticks or work whatever other magic with their life energy they care to.” He shook his fist at the Unkerlanter captives.
“They won’t do that,” Ealstan said. “If they do, the Unkerlanters will start cutting the throats of their Algarvian captives, and then where will we be? Back in the red days after the Kaunian Empire fell, that’s where.”
“If you ask me, the Unkerlanters deserve it.” Sidroc drew his thumb across his own throat. Ealstan started to say something. Before he could, Sidroc went on, “If you ask me, the redheads deserve it, too. Powers below eat both sides.”
Ealstan pointed frantically toward the Algarvian constable. The redhead stood so close to them, he couldn’t have helped hearing. But he didn’t speak enough Forthwegian to understand what they were saying. The last few Unkerlanter captives tramped past, and the last couple of Algarvian guards. The constable gave a sweeping wave, as if he were a noble graciously granting peasants a boon. Along with the rest of the Forthwegians who’d been waiting for the procession to pass, Ealstan and Sidroc crossed the street.
“Why do you keep going on about Plegmund’s Brigade if that’s the way you feel about the redheads?” Ealstan asked his cousin.
Sidroc said, “I wouldn’t be joining for the Algarvians. I’d be joining for me.”
“I can’t see the difference,” Ealstan said. “I bet you King Mezentio wouldn’t be able to see the difference, either.”
“That’s because you’re a blockhead,” Sidroc said. “If you want to tell me Mezentio’s a blockhead, too, I won’t argue with you.”
“I know what I’ll tell you,” Ealstan said. “I’ll tell you I’m not the biggest blockhead here, that’s what.”
Sidroc mimed throwing a punch. Ealstan mimed ducking. They both laughed. They were still insulting each other, but not the way they had been lately. This was just schoolboys’ foolish talk, not the sort of business that could poison things between them for years to come. A little stretch of childishness felt good.
They hadn’t stopped tossing insults around, or laughing about it, by the time they knocked on the door of Ealstan’s house. Conberge unbarred it and stood in the entry hall looking from one of them to the other. “I think both of you stopped in a tavern on the way here,” she said, and Ealstan couldn’t tell whether she was joking or not.
Sidroc stepped up and breathed in her face. “No wine,” he declared. “No ale, either.”
Conberge mimed reeling away. “No, but when was the last time you cleaned your teeth?” she said. Considering how little love she bore for Sidroc, her voice should have had an edge. Had it borne one, it would have wrecked the moment like a bursting egg. Somehow, it didn’t. Sidroc breathed in Ealstan’s face. Not about to let his sister outdo him, Ealstan mimed falling over dead. He and Sidroc were laughing so hard, they had to hold each other up. Conberge could no more help laughing, too, than she could help breathing.
A door opened across the street. A neighbor stared at the three of them, wondering what could be so funny in grim, occupied Gromheort. Ealstan wondered, too, but not enough to stop laughing. Maybe part of him sensed that this little glowing stretch couldn’t last long no matter what.
The neighbor closed the door, shaking her head. That was funny, too. But then Conberge, who hadn’t been quite so immersed in giggles as Ealstan and Sidroc, said, “The two of you are later than you should be if you came straight home.”
“We did,” Ealstan said. “Really. We had to wait for a bunch of Unkerlanter captives to shuffle through the middle of town. I suppose they’re on the way to a camp.” As soon as he’d spoken, he knew he’d punctured the magic. Captives and camps didn’t go with heedless laughter.
From out of the south, a cloud rolled across the sun, plunging the street into gloom. Ealstan wondered how he could have let himself be so silly, even if only for a little while. By Sidroc’s expression, the same thought was in his mind. Ealstan sighed. “Come on, let’s go in,” he said. “It’s getting chilly out here.”
Bembo did not like marching along a road roughly paved with cobblestones and other bits of rubble, especially not when the cobbles and other bits of rubble were slick and wet with last night’s rain. “If I slip and fall, I’m liable to break my ankle,” the Algarvian constable complained.
“Maybe you’ll break your neck instead,” Oraste said helpfully. “That would make you shut up, anyhow.”
“Both of you can shut up,” Sergeant Pesaro growled. “We have a job to do, and we’re going to do it, that’s all. End of story.” He tramped along, full of determination, his big belly bouncing ahead of him at every stride, and set a good pace for the squad of constables he led.
In a low voice, Bembo told Oraste, “I’ve got silver that says he’ll be done in long before we get to this Oyngestun place.”
“I know you’re a fool,” the other constable answered, “but I didn’t know you thought I was one, too. I’m not stupid enough to throw my money away on a bet like that.”
They tramped past fields and almond and olive groves and little stands of woods. Here and there, Bembo saw Forthwegians and Kaunians, sometimes in small groups but more often alone, examining the ground and occasionally digging. “What are they doing?” he asked.
“Gathering mushrooms.” Pesaro rolled his eyes. “They eat them.”
“That’s disgusting.” Bembo stuck out his tongue and made a horrible face. None of the other constables argued with him. After a moment, he added, “It’s liable to be dangerous, too--to us, I mean. They could be sneaking around doing anything at all while they’re pretending to go after mushrooms.”
Pesaro nodded, then shrugged. “I know, but what can you do? The soldiers say these whoresons’d revolt if we tried to keep ‘em inside their towns this time of year. We’re stuck with a little trouble--I hope it’s a little trouble--but we stay out of big trouble. And we can’t afford big trouble here right now. We’ve got too much farther west.”
“Ah.” Trades like that made sense to Bembo. They were part of a constable’s life. “Maybe we ought to make ‘em pay to go out and hunt the cursed things, the way you get a free one from a floozy now and then so you won’t haul her in.”
Some sergeant would have pitched a fit to hear something like that. Pesaro only nodded again. “Not a half bad idea. Maybe we ought to pass it on up the line. Anything we can squeeze out of this miserable place puts us that much further ahead of the game.” He walked on for another few paces, then took off his hat and wiped at his sweaty forehead with his sleeve. “Long, miserable march.” Bembo gave Oraste an I-told-you-so look. Oraste ignored him. Pesaro went on, “This big, heavy stick doesn’t make things any easier, either.”
He was right about that. Bembo had long since got sick and tired of the army-style stick he’d been issued for this assignment. Carrying it made his hand tired and his shoulder ache. Carrying it also worried him. If his superiors didn’t think a short, stubby constabulary stick would be enough to keep him safe in Oyngestun, how much trouble was he liable to find there?
Pesaro, who had been slumping like suet on a hot summer day as the constables neared the village, rallied just before they got into it. “Straighten up, there,” he barked at his men. “We’re not going to let these yokels catch us looking like something the cat dragged in. Show some spunk, or you’ll be sorry.”