Beyond the remains of the column, somebody moved. Bembo’s stick was in his hand on the instant. “Who goes?” he said sharply.
“It’s only me,” a woman’s voice answered. “You wouldn’t do anything to bother me, now would you?”
“Who the blazes-?” Bembo burst out. But the voice was familiar. “Fiametta, is that you?”
“Well, who else would it be, sweetheart?” she said as she came around what was left of the column. Her tunic might have been painted on; her kilt barely covered her shapely backside. “Bembo?” she asked, stopping short in surprise when she recognized him. “I thought you were dead!”
“Not quite,” Bembo said. “What are you doing out after curfew? You ought to know better than that.”
“What do you think I was doing?” Fiametta twitched her hips. “I was working, that’s what. I’ll go along home like a good little girl, I promise.”
Bembo barked laughter. “You haven’t been a good little girl since you got too big to make messes in your drawers. I caught you out right about here back when the war started, remember? I ought to run you in.”
“You wouldn’t do that!” the courtesan exclaimed in dismay.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Bembo said. “You know what time it is. You’re out late. You can’t very well say I beat your door down and dragged you out of bed.”
“Have a heart, Bembo!” Fiametta said. Bembo just stood there, looking official. The woman muttered something under her breath. He couldn’t make out what, which was probably just as well. She sighed. “Look, suppose I give you some, too? Will you leave me alone then? It wouldn’t be the first time, you know.”
He didn’t even think about Saffa. Constables and courtesans made bargains like this all the time. “Now you’re talking,” he said.
They found an alley where the street lights didn’t reach. When Bembo came out a few minutes later, he was whistling. Fiametta, he supposed, headed to her home, or maybe just to another paying job. He wondered what she would do if she ran into a Kuusaman patrol. From everything he’d seen, the Kuusamans didn’t make deals like that.
The rest of his shift passed less enjoyably, but he didn’t have to do much. That suited him fine. The sun climbed up over the Bradano Mountains. He met his relief on the streets, then made his way back to the constabulary station to check out. As he neared the stairs, a skinny old man came up the street from the other direction. The fellow called his name.
“Aye, that’s me,” Bembo answered. “Who are you? Curfew doesn’t end for another hour or so.” If this fellow had no good explanation for being out and about, he’d grab him and haul him in. That would show people what a diligent fellow he was.
“You don’t know me?” The skinny man looked down at himself. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. There was more of me when we saw each other last.”
Bembo’s jaw dropped. “Sergeant Pesaro? Powers above! If this isn’t old home week, I don’t know what. But you were in Gromheort. How did you get out alive?”
Pesaro shrugged. “I hadn’t quite starved to death when the Unkerlanters took the place-advantage to being fat, you know-and the fellow I surrendered to let me do it instead of blazing me. I got lucky there, I know. They didn’t feed me much in the captives’ camp, but they finally let most of us go-easier than hanging on to us, I expect. I’ve walked across most of Algarve to get here, on account of an awful lot of the ley lines still aren’t working the way they’re supposed to.”
“You were lucky,” Bembo said.
“If you want to call it that,” Pesaro answered. “How about you? You were in Eoforwic when the Unkerlanters took it, so I didn’t think I’d ever see your ugly mug again.”
“I got wounded-broken leg-when the Unkerlanter attack opened up,” Bembo said. “We still had a line of retreat open from the town, so they shipped me out. I don’t think Oraste got away.”
“Well, he always was a tough bastard,” Pesaro said. “If Swemmel’s men caught him, he’ll have the chance to prove it. And if they didn’t catch him, he’s bound to be dead.”
Bembo climbed the stairs and held the door open. “Come on, Sergeant. Show ‘em you still know what’s what.”
“All I know is, I’m cursed glad I’m still breathing,” Pesaro said as he wearily joined Bembo at the top of the stairs. “There were plenty of times when I didn’t think I would be.”
“Who you jawing with, Bembo?” the desk sergeant asked. “You arrest somebody?”
“No, Sergeant,” Bembo answered. “Look, here’s Sergeant Pesaro, back from the west. If he can make it back, maybe more people will.”
“Sergeant Pesaro?” The desk sergeant sounded as if he couldn’t believe his ears. He got up and stared at Pesaro. “Why, by the powers above, it is. Welcome home, Sergeant. Always good news when another one comes back.” He glanced over at Bembo. “Well, almost always.”
“And I love you, too, Sergeant,” Bembo said sweetly.
Hearing Pesaro’s name brought constables and clerks out from the back rooms of the constabulary station. They pounded the newcomer’s back, clasped his wrist, and congratulated him on coming home again. They never paid that much attention to me, Bembo thought resentfully. But then he smiled to himself. Let them fuss as much as they want. I’ve got Saffa warming my bed, and Pesaro won’t be able to match that-or he’d better not, anyhow.
Even Captain Sasso, who was in early, came down from his lofty office to greet Pesaro. “Good to see you, too, Captain,” Pesaro said. “I wondered if I ever would, after you sent me west.”
That brought a moment of silence. Bembo hadn’t dared say any such thing to Sasso. The constabulary captain licked his lips. Everyone waited to hear how he would answer. At last, he said, “Well, Sergeant, back then none of us thought things would turn out the way they did.”
Now it was Pesaro’s turn to think things over. Grudgingly, he nodded. “All right, Captain, that’s fair enough, I guess.”
When Bembo went back to his flat, he found Saffa getting ready to go in to work. She burst into tears when he told her Pesaro had come back to Tricarico. She seemed so delighted, Bembo wondered if she had slept with the sergeant before he went west. But then Saffa said, “If he can come home. .” She didn’t finish the sentence, but she didn’t have to. If he can come home, my little bastard’s daddy can come home, too, and then the powers below eat you, Bembo. That was what she meant, that or something enough like it not to matter.
Bembo almost said something sharp in return, but at the last minute he decided to keep his mouth shut-something that came close to constituting an unnatural act for an Algarvian. He kissed her, patted her on the backside, yawned, and headed for the bedroom. He was tired. Saffa, he thought, gave him a grateful look for not picking a fight. Just before he fell asleep, he heard the door close as she went off to the constabulary station.
He got a rather different welcome when he came back to his flat a couple of mornings later. Saffa stood just inside the doorway. “You son of a whore!” she shouted, and slapped him in the face hard enough to rock him back on his heels. “You stick it into that cheap slut, and then you want to touch me? Not futtering likely!” She belted him again, backhand this time.
Though his ears rang, he did ask the right question: “What in blazes are you talking about?” He’d nearly said, How did you know? That would have lost the game before it even started.
But asking the right question didn’t do him a bit of good, for Saffa ground out, “Fiametta told Adonio what you did, and Adonio brought the lovely news back to the station, and now everybody there must know it. And if you think you’ll ever lay a finger on me again, let alone anything else-” She swung at him again.
He caught her by the wrist. When he didn’t let go right away, she tried to bite his hand. “Stop that, powers below eat you!” he said. “I can expl-”