Jaws of Darkness

Along with his partner Oraste, Bembo tramped through the streets of Gromheort. Looking around at the grimy, battered Forthwegian city, the plump Algarvian constable said, “Curse me if I’m not glad to be back.”

“What? Here?” Oraste was a man of few but strong opinions. “You’re out of your stinking mind.”

“Not me,” Bembo said. “Not a bit of it. Tricarico was even gloomier than this place is, and all my friends are here.”

Oraste snorted. “Like you’ve got friends. The only one of us who’s ever got leave since they sent us to this miserable place, and it wasn’t good enough for you. Are you an idiot or just an ingrate?”

“Aye, rag on me as much as you want, but I was there and you weren’t,” Bembo said. “Seemed like everybody was too worried and working too hard to have a good time.” He nodded, liking the taste of the words. “That’s just how it was, sure enough.”

“If a tart laid you for free, you’d complain because you didn’t like her negligee,” Oraste jeered. “Speaking of which, even looking at Algarvian women had to be worth going home for. These Forthwegian dames are built like bricks, and the long tunics they wear might as well be tents.”

“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” Bembo said. He’d done a lot more looking than touching, but he wouldn’t embarrass himself by admitting as much to his partner. “Did I tell you Saffa had somebody’s baby?”

“Only four times now, or is it five?” Oraste returned. “If you ask me, you’re just jealous on account of she didn’t have yours.”

Bembo walked the next block in wounded silence. Oraste had been teasing him, but that blaze hit entirely too close to the mark. He wouldn’t have minded had the pretty little sketch artist had his baby, or at least done something with him that made it possible for her to have a baby. But she hadn’t wanted to do anything of the sort, not with him. That she’d done it with someone else was all the more galling.

Most days, his definition of an ideal tour on the beat would have been to have nothing to do but cadge food and drink from the bakers and taverners on the streets he patrolled. Today, though, he was glad to hear a noisy quarrel ahead.

So was Oraste. He pulled his bludgeon off his belt and slapped it into the palm of his hand. “Let’s see what’s going on,” he said, anticipation in his voice. He liked breaking heads. He’d complained Forthwegian women were built like bricks. So was he. Unlike Forthwegian women, he was just about as hard as a brick, too.

Two men stood in the middle of the street screaming at each other, caring nothing if they got in the way of wagons and carriages. The first thing Bembo noticed was that they looked very much alike, save that one of them had a typical proud, hooked Forthwegian nose, while that of the other fellow was shaped more like a tuber. The second thing he noticed was that he’d seen and spoken with the fellow with the ordinary nose before.

He didn’t know whether Oraste noticed the same thing. If his partner did notice, he didn’t seem to care. “Get out of the roadway, you idiots, before you get mashed flat,” Oraste growled, assuming the Forthwegians would speak his language. Maybe he meant a wagon would squash them if they didn’t move. Maybe he meant he would. Bembo knew which way he would have bet.

The Forthwegians did understand Algarvian. They also understood what a constable bearing down on them with a bludgeon was likely to mean. Before Oraste could do anything they would regret, they hurried back onto the sidewalk.

“Now, what’s going on here?” Bembo asked. Being partnered with Oraste often made him take the role of sweet reason. He resented that: it wasn’t one for which he was well suited.

“My brother is a traitor,” said the Forthwegian with a nose like a tuber.

“My brother is a liar,” said the other Forthwegian, the one who looked familiar.

Before Bembo could say anything, Oraste used his bludgeon to point at the fellow who’d spoken first. “Every son of a whore is a liar. Not everybody’s a traitor. That means you start. Who are you? Who’s he? And if you two are brothers, how come you’re calling each other nasty names?”

Those were all questions Bembo would have asked. He wouldn’t have asked them as if he intended to murder the Forthwegian if he didn’t like the answers. Maybe that made Oraste a better constable than he was. He didn’t much care.

“I’m Hengist,” the Forthwegian with the bumpy nose answered. “He’s Hestan. Why is he a traitor? I’ll tell you why. Because his son ran off with a Kaunian slut, that’s why.”

“I have no idea where Ealstan is,” Hestan said. “All I know is, he left Gromheort two years ago, and I haven’t seen him or heard from him since.”

“Left? He ran off after he had a fight with my son. My guess is, he thought he murdered Sidroc,” Hengist said furiously. “And what were they fighting about? Sidroc got hit in the head, but he finally got reminded or remembered. They were fighting about a blond bitch named Vanai, that’s what.”

“Futter your son!” Hestan shouted, sounding even angrier than Hengist. “Talk about murder-Sidroc murdered my Leofsig and nothing happened to him, so now he thinks he can put a noose around Ealstan’s neck, too.”

“Hold on. Slow down,” Oraste said. “Who’s who again? Too many names all at once.”

But Bembo had heard all the names before. He pointed to Hestan. “This is the fellow who was talking with that Brivibas bugger when I recognized his voice in spite of the magic that made him look like a Forthwegian.”

“So?” Oraste said. But then, a couple of beats behind Bembo, he began to catch up. “Wait a minute. That long-winded bastard was what’s-her-name’s granddad, wasn’t he?”

“That’s right.” Bembo nodded. “One of our officers who came through here not so long ago was looking for that Vanai twist, too. He’d had her when he was garrisoned in Oyngestun, and he wanted to take her west with him so he wouldn’t have to sleep all by his lonesome. But she never got pulled into Gromheort, remember? She’d skipped Oyngestun before we cleaned out the place.”

“Aye, that’s right,” Oraste said. “I forgot how all the pieces fit together.” He glowered at Hestan. “What’s this nonsense about murder you were spewing.”

“It isn’t nonsense,” the Forthwegian said. “His son”-he spat at Hengist’s shoes-”beat mine to death with a chair in my own dining room.”

“Why didn’t he hang for it, then?” Oraste demanded.

Hestan didn’t answer right away. When he didn’t, Bembo did: “I recall that. Nasty business. This Sidroc item had just signed on with Plegmund’s Brigade, so nobody much cared what he did.”

“Aye, he’s loyal to King Mezentio,” Hengist said, “unlike some people I could name.”

Bembo was less impressed than Hengist had thought he would be. “Most of what’s in Plegmund’s Brigade is stable scrapings, you ask me,” he said.

Oraste’s big head went up and down. “That’s the truth. Half of’em’d be in gaol if they weren’t in Unkerlant.” Hestan laughed. Hengist looked as if he hated Bembo and Oraste both. But Oraste wasn’t finished: “Still and all, this fellow”-he pointed at Hestan-”hangs around with Kaunians, and his kid’s likely a Kaunian-lover, too. I say we run him in, see if the bigwigs think he’s worth keeping.”

“Suits me.” Bembo pointed to Hestan. “You can come along quiet-like, or we’ll make you unhappy and then you’ll come along anyway.” He jerked a thumb at Hengist. “As for you, pal, get lost before we haul you in, too.”

Hengist turned to go, but not without a parting blaze: “His precious Leof-sig escaped from a captives’ camp. He bribed officials to look the other way.”

“Did he, now?” Bembo eyed Hestan in a speculative way. He’d never been allergic to cash on the side, or under the table.

But Oraste said, “He won’t get away with that, not with us.” Oraste had been known to take a bribe every now and then, but only every now and then. More often, he preferred making people he nabbed suffer, whether by beating them or just by letting the law take its course instead of giving them the chance to get out of their trouble.