When he walked up the stairs and into the station, Sergeant Pesaro greeted him with, "Ah, here is another one of our heroes!" No one had thrown Pesaro into the militia. He might have been able to march. On the other hand, he might as readily have fallen over dead from an apoplexy.

"A worn-out hero," Bembo said mournfully. "If I have to do too much more of this, I'll be a shadow of my former self " He looked down at his belly. It wasn't the size of Pesaro's, but he still made a pretty substantial shadow.

"You complain so much, you might as well already be in the army, not the constabulary," Pesaro said.

"Oh, and you've never grumbled in all your born days," Bembo retorted, wagging a forefinger at the fat man behind the desk. Pesaro coughed a couple of times and turned red, perhaps from embarrassment, perhaps just because he was a fat man who sat behind a desk all day: even coughing was an exertion for him. Bembo went on, "I see in the news sheet that Zuwayza's giving Unkerlant another clout in the head."

"Efficiency," Pesaro said with a laugh. "Don't know how long those naked burnt-skins can keep doing what they're doing, but it's pretty funny while it's going on."

"So it is." Bembo hid his disappointment. He'd hoped Pesaro would tell him more than he'd heard from the news-sheet vendor. Maybe the sergeant hadn't felt like springing for a sheet today, either.

Then Pesaro said, "Only trouble is, I heard on the crystal this morning that we're not the only ones who think so. Jelgava and Valniera have sent messages to the Zuwayzi king, whatever his cursed name is, congratulating him on giving King Swemmel a hard time."

"Can't say I'm surprised," Bembo answered. "When Swemmel jumped on Forthweg's back, that meant we wouldn't have to worry about our western front any more - or not about the Forthwegians there, anyway.

"Oh, aye," Pesaro said. "Not that Unkerlant's any great neighbor to have. We've fought more wars with those bastards than anybody likes to remember, and it wouldn't surprise me one bit if they were thinking about another one."

"That wouldn't surprise me, either," Bembo said. "Everybody's always plotting against Algarve. It's been like that since the days of the Kaunian Empire."

"A lot you know about the Kaunian Empire," Pesaro said. Before Bembo could make an irate reply to that, the sergeant went on, "Talk about inefficiency - we might as well be Unkerlanters ourselves, the way we're using constables for militiamen."

"Make up your mind," Bembo said. "You just called me a hero not five minutes ago."

"I remembered something else I heard on the crystal," Pesaro answered placidly. "A dozen captives broke out of a camp in Forthweg, and they're on the loose in the countryside. What do soldiers know about keeping captives? About as much as constables know about fighting cam that's what. If they're going to use constables to help the war along, they ought to get to use us to take captives and guard them, not to blaze the front line. That'd be proper efficiency. "

"Not a bad idea at all," Bembo said. Pesaro preened as if he were a writer of romances suddenly receiving critical acclaim. With a s chuckle, Bembo added, "I never would have expected it from you."

"Funny," Pesaro said. "Funny like a man walking with two canes that's what it is." He could take ribbing, could Pesaro, but only so muc[...] Bembo evidently, had gone over the line. "Here's another idea that isn't bad at all," Pesaro growled: "You getting into your uniform and doin some real work instead of hanging around and banging your gums with me.

"All right, Sergeant. All night." Bembo raised a placating hand. "I'm going, I'm going." As he went, he muttered under his breath: "Fat [.ol.] fraud wouldn't know anything about real work if it paraded past his naked."

After donning the regulation tunic and kilt, he paused in the reconing section, where Saffa was sketching a portrait of a haggard-looking miscreant. Bembo thought of the little artist parading past him naked definitely a more attractive prospect than real work. What he was thin ing must have shown, too, for Saffa snapped, "Drag your mind out of the latrine, if you please."

Bembo's ears heated. He glared over toward the wretch whose image Saffa had been committing to paper. Had the fellow said a word - had he even smiled - Bembo would have taken out his rage on him. But the captive, wiser than Martusino, kept his mouth shut and his expression blank

Doubly baulked, Bembo walked fuming to his desk.

Plenty of forms and reports awaited him there, as was true for most constables most of the time. Bembo ignored them. He worked diligently enough when he felt like it, but not when work was forced upon him.

As most Algarvians would have done, he avenged himself by disobeying.

He pulled a historical romance out of his desk and started reading. 'T show you what I know about the Kaunian Empire, he mumbled

Pesaro's direction, though not loud enough for the desk sergeant anyone else - to hear.

Mercenaries' Revolt, the cover screamed in lurid red letters, Vith a smaller subhead reading, Mighty Ziliante sets an empire afire! The bo showed a stalwart Algarvian, his coppery hair washed with lime to gn,c him a leonine mane, brandishing a sword. Clinging to him was a Kau doxy wearing no more clothes than she'd been born with. Her hand poised, as if about to reach under his kilt and caress what she found th

The text lived up to, or down to, the cover. Bembo couldn't remember a romance he'd enjoyed more.

The Kauman Emperor had just ordered Ziliante made into a eunuch.

Bembo was sure that wouldn't happen; the virile hero had already got too many blond noblewomen's drawers down. Which of them would rescue him, and how? Bembo read on to find out. e age he ing.

"I'll [..d in or ith a book give unian..]"

Krasta sipped cherry brandy laced with wormwood. A band thumped away in the background: tuba and accordion, bagpipes and thudding kettledrum. On the dance floor, Valmieran nobles swayed and spun to the loud, insistent beat.

"This is the place to be," Valnu said, leering across the table at her.

"Even if the Algarvians drop eggs on Priekule, they can't knock the Cellar down. We're already underground." He giggled as if he'd said something very funny.

"This is the place to be because it's the place to be," Krasta replied with a shrug. Had the Cellar been built atop the Kauman Column of Victory, she still would have frequented the nightspot. Anyone who was, or who had pretensions of being, someone came here. People who weren't someone looked on from a distance and envied. That was the way the world worked.

Valnu lifted his mug of porter. "So good to find you thinking as clearly as ever." Malice flavored the affection in his voice as the wormwood embittered Krasta's sweet brandy. I hope your brother is still safe, there in the west."

"He was well, last letter I had from him." Krasta tossed her head, send ing pale gold curls flying: old imperial styles had suddenly become the rage.

"But this is too much talk about the war. I don't want to think about the war." The truth of the matter was, she didn't want to think at all.

"Very well." Valnu's smile turned him into the most charming skull Krasta had ever known. "Let's dance, then." He got to his feet.

"All right, why not?" Krasta said carelessly. The room spun a little as she rose: that spiked brandy was potent stuff. She laughed as Valnu slid an arm around her waist and guided her out on to the floor.

Valnu was a thoroughgoing predator. His principal virtue was that he never pretended to be anything else. As he and Krasta danced, his hand slid from the small of her back to close on the smooth curve of her left buttock. He pressed her tight against him, so tight that she could not pos sibly doubt he had more than dancing on his mind.