It was most of an hour later when Oraste pointed ahead and said, “There. That must be the place. Miserable-looking little dump, isn’t it? How many are we supposed to take out of it, Sergeant?”
“Twenty.” Pesaro grunted. “Hardly looks like it’s got twenty people in it, does it, let alone twenty Kaunians? But if we don’t bring back twenty, we get blamed.” He kicked a clod of dirt. “Life’s not fair.”
“Sergeant?” That was a youngish constable named Almonio. Bembo looked at him in some surprise; he hardly ever said anything.
“What is it?” Pesaro sounded surprised, too.
“Sergeant...” Now that he had spoken, Almonio looked as if he wished he hadn’t. He marched along for several paces before going on, “When we get into this Hwinca place, Sergeant, may I have your leave not to help round up these Kaunians?”
“What’s this?” Sergeant Pesaro studied him as if he were a double rainbow or a golden unicorn or some other astonishing freak of nature. Pesaro’s beefy face clouded. “You telling me you haven’t got the stomach for it?”
Miserably, Almonio nodded. “Aye, I think that’s what it is. I know what’s going to happen to the whoresons once we take ‘em, and I don’t much want to be a part of it.”
Bembo’s eyes got wider and wider as he listened. “Powers above,” he whispered to Oraste, “the sergeant’ll tear him limb from limb.”
“Aye, so he will.” Oraste sounded as if he was looking forward to it.
Pesaro, though, seemed more curious than furious. “Suppose we’re rounding up the blonds and they try and fight us? What are you going to do then, Almonio? You going to stand there and let the Kaunians kill your comrades?”
“Of course not, Sergeant,” Almonio answered. “I just don’t want to have to. drag them out of their houses, that’s all. It’s a filthy business.”
“War is a filthy business,” Pesaro said, but he still didn’t sound angry. He rubbed his chins as he thought. At last, he pointed toward the reluctant constable. “All right, Almonio, here’s what you’ll do for today: you’ll stand guard while the rest of us winkle out the Kaunians. If they give any trouble--if they even look like they might give any trouble--you start blazing. Have you got that?”
“Aye, Sergeant.” Almonio stopped marching for a moment so he could bow. “I thank you, Sergeant.”
“Don’t thank me too much,” Pesaro answered. “And, by the powers above, keep your cursed mouth shut, or we’re both in hot water.” He shook his head. “Warm water would feel good right now, but not that hot.”
Well, well--isn’t that interesting? Bembo thought. I’ve got a hold on Pesaro, if I ever want one. He lifted off his hat so he could scratch his head. The way things were, he couldn’t see wanting one. He’d spent years getting used to Pesaro--and getting Pesaro used to him. Any other sergeant was too likely to be harder on him. He laughed a sour laugh. Wasn’t that the way of the world?--come up with something that looked good and then decide you couldn’t use it.
Into Hwinca marched the constabulary squad. The village was smaller and dingier than Oyngestun; it didn’t lie on a ley line, and so seemed more a product of a distant time than Oyngestun had. And Oyngestun, as far as Bembo was concerned, hadn’t been anything to write home about, either.
He didn’t write home very often, anyhow. He’d quarreled endlessly with his father before going out on his own; they still had little to do with each other. His sister had quarreled with the old man, too. But Lanfusa’s escape had been to marry a furrier who was now on his way to being rich. She didn’t like being reminded her brother was only a constable. If he sent a letter to Safta, she might write back. She was likelier to fall over dead from shock, though.
A few Forthwegians nodded to the constables. One of them grinned and winked and clapped his hands, almost as if he were an Algarvian. The leer on his face made Bembo remember that what he was doing in Forthweg probably ought not to go down in writing to anyone.
“Kaunians, come forth!” Pesaro shouted in a great voice when he got to Hwinca’s village square. Evodio turned his words from Algarvian into classical Kaunian. That was the tongue the blonds hereabouts still spoke, or near enough as to make no difference.
No matter what language the order came in, the Kaunians ignored it. Bembo turned to Oraste. “There--you see? They’ve got a notion of what’s going to happen to them. They won’t come out all by themselves, not anymore. We’re going to have to go in after ‘em. It’ll be a lot of extra work from now on.”
Oraste hefted his stick. “Liable to be dangerous work, too. If they figure they’re going to get shipped west anyhow, who’s to say they won’t decide they’ve got nothing to lose and try and take some of us with ‘em?”
“Aye.” That had occurred to Bembo, too. He wished it hadn’t.
Pesaro shouted again. His voice echoed off the houses and shops facing the square. Again, Evodio translated his words into classical Kaunian. Again, none of the yellow-haired men and women in Hwinca came forth. “Well, we’ll have to do it the hard way,” Pesaro said. His chuckle had a nasty edge. “You know what, though? I don’t think it’ll be too hard.” He beckoned to the Forthwegian who’d applauded the constables’ arrival. “Come here, pal. Aye, you. You speak Algarvian?”
With a show of regret, the villager shook his head. Pesaro looked exasperated. Neither he nor any of his men spoke any Forthwegian past what little they’d picked up since coming from Tricarico. Evodio said, “I’ll bet he speaks Kaunian, Sergeant.”
“Find out,” Pesaro said. Sure enough, intelligence lit on the Forthwegian’s face. Pesaro nodded. “Good. Tell him we’ll pay him--doesn’t have to be anything much or I’m a Yaninan--if he’ll show us which houses the Kaunians live in.”
That fellow turned out not to be the only villager who spoke Kaunian; three or four others clamored for a share of the reward, too. Bembo and Oraste followed one of them to a house that didn’t look any different from those to either side of it. The Forthwegian pointed at the door, as dramatically as if he were a hunting dog pointing at a woodcock.
“Kaunians, come forth!” the two constables shouted together. Nobody came forth. Bembo and Oraste looked at each other. They drew back a couple of paces, then slammed the door with their shoulders. It flew inward, the brackets in which its bar rested pulled out of the wall. Bembo sprawled on hands and knees in the front hall; he’d expected to bounce off his first try. Oraste kept his feet, but barely.
“They’ll pay for that, the scum,” Bembo muttered as he got to his feet. “Come on, let’s turn this place inside out.”
Sticks at the ready, he and Oraste swept through the house. They didn’t have to search long or hard: they found the Kaunians--a man and woman of about Bembo’s age, with two little girls too young to be interesting--cowering in a pantry in the kitchen. Oraste gestured with his stick. “Come out, every cursed one of you!” he growled.
“Aye, sir,” said the man, in decent Algarvian. He was, Bembo judged, frightened almost out of his wits, but doing his best not to show it for the sake of his family. In a low, urgent voice, he went on, “Whatever you want so you will say you could not find us, I will give it to you. I have money. I am not a poor man. All of it is yours--only let us live.”
“Kaunian,” Oraste said: an all-inclusive rejection. Bembo gave his comrade a dirty look. He’d wanted to see how much the blond would offer. But he couldn’t get away with that if Oraste didn’t go along.
The yellow-haired man whispered something to his wife. She bit her lip, but nodded. “Not money, then,” the Kaunian man said rapidly, desperately. “But anything you want. Anything.” He gestured to the woman. She undid the top toggle of her tunic. She wasn’t bad-looking--she wasn’t bad-looking at all--but. ..