"That is good news," Vanai said. If he could not publish his articles, Brivibas would grow even more peevish than usual. He would also have more leisure in which to try to oversee every facet of her life, which was nothing she wanted.

"On the whole, it is good news," he said, donning an indignant expression. "The drawback is, all submissions must henceforth appear in either Forthwegian or Algarvian. Those offered in classical Kaunian, the language of learning, must be rejected unread, by order of the occupiers."

Vanai shivered, though the kitchen was warm enough. "What right have the redheads to say our language is not to be used?" she asked.

"The conqueror's right: the right they understand best," Bri'vibas answered bleakly. He sighed. "I have not attempted serious composition in Forthwegian for many years. Who would, with Kaunian to use instead? I suppose I must make the effort, though, if I am to continue setting my researches before any part of the scholarly community." Not setting his researches before the scholarly community plainly never occurred to him.

Before Vanai could reply, shouts and the sound of running feet came [..Orn..] outside. She peered through the kitchen window, a narrow slit intended to give a little fresh air, not any great view: for views, all folk of Forthweg, regardless of their blood, far preferred their courtyards to the streets. She got a glimpse of a yellow-haired man running as if his life depended on his feet. And so it might have, for a couple of Algarvian soldiers pounded after him, sticks in hand.

They shouted again, first in their language, then in Forthwegian: "Halt!"

One of them dropped to a knee to take dead aim at the fleeing Kaunian.

The fellow must have ducked around a comer before he could bla though, for he sprang to his feet once more with what sounded like a cur

"Halt!" his comrade yelled again. They both pounded after the fugitive.

"I wonder what he did," Vanai said. "I wonder if he did anything."

"Probably not." Her grandfather's voice was weary and bitty.

"Having done something is by no means a requirement for pumishme not where the Algarvians are concerned." Vanai nodded. She'd already seen as much for herself.

Bembo tramped up and down the meadow outside Tricarico's munic ipal stadium. Though the day was on the chilly side, sweat ran down his face and threatened to leave his mustache as limp as if he'd forgotten t wax it. The constable, a pudgy man, hadn't done much in the way o marching for a good many years.

Not that the drill sergeant cared. "Powers below eat all of you!" he screamed, in a temper extravagant even by Algarvian standards. "I bite my thumb at you! I bite my thumb at your fathers, if you know who they are!" From a civilian, that would have provoked a flock of challenges. But a soldier in the service of King Mezentio enjoyed even broader immunity from having to defend his honor than did a constable.

The sergeant waved the shambling column to a halt. Bembo had all he could do not to collapse on the grass. His legs felt like overcooked noodles. He could smell himself. Beneath their perfumes, he could smell the men around him.

"We'll try it again," the drill sergeant grunted. "I know you're stupid, but try and work at remembering which is your left foot and which is your right. If those stinking towheads from Jelgava break out of the mountains, you get to go into line to throw'em back. Maybe you'll be able to fool them into thinking you're soldiers, at least for a little while.

I doubt it, but maybe. Now… forward, march!"

Along with the rest of the men of Tricarico dragooned into~ this makeshift militia, Bembo started marching. The Jelgavans hadn't broken out of the Bradano Mountains yet, though they'd come close a couple of times. Bembo hoped the regulars could hold them. If they couldn't, if Algarve had to rely on the likes of him to fight, the kingdom was in a lot of trouble.

[...Is munic down his rgotten to the way of he bite they enges. But der irnmu o had all he overcooked could smell ou're stupid, nd which is out of the e you'll be a little while. ed into this adn't broken se a couple of y couldn't, if m was in a lot...]

"Left!" the drill sergeant roared. "Left!… Left-right-left! Sound off!"

"One! Two!" Bembo called, as he'd learned to do.

"Sound off!"

"Three! Four!"

"Left-right-left!" The sergeant gathered himself for the next order:

'To the rear, march!" Raggedly, the militiamen obeyed. The drill sergeant clapped a hand to his forehead. "You don't execute commands better than that, you'll all get fornicating executed if you have to go up to the line. Aye, the Jelgavans are a pack of trouser-weaning scum, but they know what they're doing, and you, you milk-fed virgins, you haven't got a clue. To the left flank, march!"

The fellow puffing along beside Bembo wheezed, "I'd like to see that loudmouthed oaf try to make pastries with no training, that's all I have to say.

"That's your line of work?" Bembo asked, and the pastry chef nodded.

With a calculating smile, the constable found another question: "Whereabouts in the city is your shop at?"

Before his comrade could answer, the drill sergeant screamed, "Silence in the ranks! Next man who squeaks out of turn will squeak soprano for the rest of his days, do you hear me?" Bembo was convinced the whole town of Tricarico heard him. The Jelgavans in the western foothills of the Bradano Mountains probably heard him, too. And the pastry chef certainly heard him, for he shut up with a snap.

Bembo sighed. A constable who strolled into a pastry shop would surely come away with clarities full of almond paste and sweet cream and raisins and cherries, and he wouldn't have to set a copper on the counter to get them, either. And now he wouldn't be able to find out into which shop he should stroll. Life was full of small tragedies.

At last, after what seemed like forever but couldn't have been longer than half that, the drill sergeant released his captives. "I'll see you again day after tomorrow, though," he threatened, "or maybe sooner, if the enemy does break through. You'd better hope he doesn't, on account of they haven't dug enough burial plots to hold all of you lugs yet."

"Cheerful bugger, isn't he?" Bembo said, but the pastry chef had already turned away. Bembo sighed again. He'd have to stay ignorant of where the fellow labored, at least till two days hence. With another sigh, he started back toward the constabulary station. He didn't get time off for the militia drill; it was piled on to everything else he had to do. That struck him as monstrously unfair, but no one had asked his view of the matter. He'd received orders to report to that bellowing fiend in human shape, and he'd had to obey.

A street vendor waved a news sheet. "Black men throw Unkerlanters back again!" he shouted. "Read all about it!"

"Has King Swemmel started killing some of his generals yet, to persuade the rest to fight harder?" Bembo asked. He approved of killing Unkerlanter generals - on general principles, he thought with a grin at his own cleverness. For that matter, he approved of executions on general principles. He had trouble imagining a constable who didn't.

"Buy my sheet here, and see for yourself," the vendor answered.

Bembo didn't feel like buying a news sheet. He felt like having the fellow tell him what he wanted to know. He and the vendor traded insults, more good-natured than otherwise, till he rounded a corner.

A couple of men on the next street corner, one of them fair enough to have a good share of Kaunian blood, saw him coming and made themselves scarce. He wasn't wearing his uniform tunic and k1h. Maybe one of them recognized his face. Maybe, too, both of them smelled him out as a constable even without seeing his uniform, even without recognizing his face. It wasn't quite sorcery on the part of the bad eggs, but it wasn't far removed, either.