"Loitering in front of a Jeweler's, Sergeant," Bembo answered.

"Why, you lying sack of guts!" Martusino yelled. He addressed the sergeant: "I was just walking past the place, Pesaro - I swear on my mother's grave. That last stretch of Reform did the trick for me. I've gone straight, I have."

He wasn't so persuasive as he might have been; the manacles kept him from talking with his hands. Sergeant Pesaro looked dubious. Bembo snarled. "Oh, he's gone straight, all right - straight back to his old tricks.

After I spotted him, I grabbed him and searched him. He had these in his belt pouch." Bembo reached into his own pouch and pulled out three golden rings. One was a plain band, one set with a polished, faceted piece ofjet, and one with a fair-sized sapphire.

"I never saw them before," the prisoner said.

Pesaro inked a pen and started to write. "Suspicion of burglary," he said. "Suspicion of intent to commit burglary. Maybe they'll get sick of this and finally hang you, Martusino. It'd be about time, if anybody cares what I think."

"This fat son of a sow is framing an innocent man!" Martusino cried.

"He planted those rings on me, the stinking lump of dung. Like I just said, I never saw'em before in my life, and there's not a soul can prove I did."

Being a constable required Bembo to take more abuse than most Algarvians would tolerate, as it let him deal out abuse with more impunity than most Algarvians. But he took only so much. Sack of guts had come up to the edge of the line and fat son of a sow went over it. He pulled out his club again and hit Martusino a good lick. The prisoner howled.

"Struck while resisting arrest," Pesaro noted, and scribbled another line on the form he was filling out. Martusino yelled louder than ever, partly from pain, partly from outrage. Pesaro shook his head. "Oh, shut up, why don't you? Take him for his pretty picture, Bembo, and then to the lockup, so I don't have to listen to him any more."

"I'll do that, Sergeant. He's giving me a headache, too." Bembo ges tured with the club. "Go on, get moving, or I'll give you another taste."

Martusino got moving. Bembo escorted him to the recording section, to get the particulars on him down in permanent form. A pretty little sketch artist took his likeness. Bembo marveled at the way she could get a man's essence on to paper with a few deft strokes of pencil and char1coal stick. It wasn't sorcery, not in any conventional sense of the word, but it seemed miraculous all the same.

He also marveled at the way the sketch artist filled out her tunic. "Why won't you go out to supper with me, Saffa?" he asked, not quite whining but not far from it, either.

"Because I don't feel like wrestling," Saffa answered. "Why don't I just slap your face now? Then it'll be as if we'd gone to supper." She bent her head to her work.

Martusino was rash enough to laugh. Bembo trod on his foot, hard.

The prisoner yelped. Bembo did his best to grind off a toe or two, but didn't quite succeed. Saffa kept right on sketching. Such things happened all the time in constabulary stations. Sometimes worse things happened.

Everyone knew that. No one saw any need to make a fuss about it.

When she was done with Martusino's portrait, she told Bembo, "You'll have to take the manacles off him for a little while. He needs to sign the sketch, and we'll need fingermarks from him, too."

One of the constables in the recording section covered Martusino with a small stick while Bembo unlocked the manacles. Unwillingly, the prisoner scrawled his name below the picture of him Saffa had drawn.

Even more unwillingly, he let her ink his fingertips and set the impressions of the marks on the paper beside the sketch.

"You're out of business for a while now, chum," Bembo said genially.

"Walk off with anything else that doesn't belong to you, and our mages will lead us straight to your door." The manacles closed on Martusino's wrists again.

"I didn't take anything this time," the prisoner protested.

"Aye, and they get babies from out behind the fig trees," Bembo said.

He and Martusino both knew a crooked wizard could break the link between a criminal and his sketch, signature, and fingermarks. Having signature and fingermarks to go with the image, though, made breaking the link harder and more expensive for the fellow who wanted it broken.

"We're done here," Saffa said.

Bembo took Martusino off to the lockup. Martusino knew the way; he'd been there before. As he and Bembo drew near, the bored-looking warder hastily closed a small book and shoved it into a desk drawer.

Bembo caught just a glimpse of a bare female backside on the cover.

"I've got a present for you, Frontino," he said, and gave the prisoner a shove.

"Just what I always wanted." Frontino's expression belled his words.

He examined Martusino. "This isn't the first time I've seen this lug, but I'll be cursed if I can remember his name. Who are you, pal?"

Martusino hesitated for a split second. Before he could give a false name, Bembo hefted the club. Martusino abruptly decided playing the game by the rules would be a good idea. He answered the warder's questions without backtalk after that. Bembo had questions to answer, too, some of them duplicating the ones Pesaro had asked. When they were over, Frontino took a small stick out of the desk drawer - Bernbo got another glimpse of that interesting book cover - and aimed it at Martusino. At his nod, Bembo undid the manacles. The constable also held his club at the ready.

"Strip off," the warder told Martusino. "Come on, come on - everything. You know the drill, so don't make me tell you anything twice."

Martusino, shed shoes and stockings, then pulled off tunic, kilt, and finally drawers. "Skin and bones," Bembo said disdainfully. "Nothing but skin and bones." The prisoner gave him a dirty look, but seemed to think another comment would earn him another clout. He was night.

Frontino rose, gathered up the belongings, and stuffed them into cloth bag. Then he threw Martusino a tunic, a kilt, and cloth slippers striped in black and white - lockup garb. Sullenly, the prisoner put it a.

It didn't fit very well. He knew better than to complain. "The judge decides you're innocent, you'll get your own junk back then," warder said. He and Bembo both grinned; they knew how unlikely it was. He went on, "Otherwise, come see me when you get out. I may have some trouble remembering where I stashed it, but expect I will if you ask me nice." [..kyou.] pay me off, he meant.

Helpfully, Bembo said, "Pesaro thinks they may just up and hang this time."

Martusino scowled. The warder shrugged. "Well, in that case he pr ably won't be coming back for it. It won't go to waste." Bembo nodded. "In that case, Frontino would keep what he wanted and sell the [..i..] Warders rarely died poor."

"They won't hang me," Martusino said, though he sounded more hopeful than confident.

"Come on." Frontino unlocked the big iron lock on the outer do, the lockup. "Go on in." Martusino obeyed. Bembo and the warder watched him through the barred window. The inner door had a serious lock. The warder mumbled the words to the releasing spell. The door flew open. Martusino went in among the rest of the prisoners having their punishment. Frontino mumbled again. The door slammed shut.

"What would happen if a prisoner who knew some magecraft went to work on that inner door?" Bembo asked.

"It's supposed to be proof against anyone below a second-rank mage," the warder answered, "and fancy mages don't go into the ordinary lockup you'd best believe they don't, Bembo my boy. We have special holes for them."

"I've heard fancy whores say things like that," Bembo remarked.

Frontino snorted and gave him a shot in the ribs with an elbow. "I didn't know you were such a funny fellow," he said.