Another thought occurred to Bembo: or we have to go on taking it till we lose. He resolutely shoved that one to the back of his mind.

He wasn't walking a beat here. He had to keep reminding himself of that. Whether he was or he wasn't, though, he soon found himself back at the constabulary station where he'd spent so much time before going to Gromheort. He hadn't seemed to belong anywhere else.

He went up the stairs and into the beat-up old building with hope thudding in his heart. He got his first jolt when he opened the door: that wasn't Sergeant Pesaro sitting behind the desk in the front hall. Of course not, you idiot, Bembo jeered at himself. You left Pesaro back in Forthweg. He didn't recognize the fellow in the sergeant's familiar seat.

The constable didn't recognize him, either. "What do you want, pal?" he asked in tones suggesting that Bembo had no business wanting anything and would be wise to take himself elsewhere in a hurry.

I'm not in uniform, Bembo realized. He fished in his belt pouch and found the card that identified him as a constable from Tricarico. Displaying it, he said, "I've been on duty in Forthweg the past couple of years. Lightning finally struck- they gave me leave."

"And you came back to a constabulary station?" the man in Pesaro's seat said incredulously. "Haven't you got better things to do with yourself?"

"Curse me if I know for sure," Bembo answered. "Tricarico looks dead and about halfway buried. What's wrong with everybody, anyway?"

"War news isn't so good," the other constable said.

"I know, but that's not it, or not all of it," Bembo insisted. With a shrug, he went on, "Here, at least, I know some people."

"Go on, then," said the constable behind the desk. "Just don't bother anybody who's working, that's all."

Bembo didn't dignify that with a reply. He hurried down the hall to the big room where clerks and sketch artists worked. A lot of the clerks he'd known were gone, with women taking their places. Most of the time, that would have cheered Bembo, but now he was looking for familiar faces. The jeers and insults he got from the handful of people who recognized him felt better than blank stares from even pretty strangers.

"Where's Saffa?" he asked one of the clerks who hadn't gone off to war when he didn't see the artist. "The army can't have taken her."

"She had a baby a couple weeks ago," the fellow answered. "She'll be back before too long, I expect."

"A baby!" Bembo exclaimed. "I didn't even know she'd got married."

"Who said anything about married?" the clerk replied. That made Bembo laugh. It also made him wonder why, if Saffa was going to fall into bed with somebody, she hadn't fallen into bed with him. Life isn't fair, he thought, and pushed on farther into the station.

Frontino the warder hastily stuck a trashy historical romance into his desk drawer when Bembo came in. Then he pulled it out again, saying, "Oh, it's you. I thought it might be somebody important," as if the constable had never gone away. He got up and clasped Bembo's wrist.

"Nice to see some things haven't changed," Bembo said. "You're still a lazy good-for-nothing."

"And you're still an old windbag," Frontino retorted fondly.

Again, trading insults made Bembo feel at home. His wave encompassed the whole constabulary station, the whole town, the whole kingdom. "It's not the same as it was, is it?"

Frontino pondered that. Bembo wondered how the warder was supposed to judge, when he spent most of his time shut away in the gaol he ran. But he didn't take long to nod and say, "It's been better, sure enough." Bembo nodded, too. All at once, he looked forward to getting back to Gromheort.

A baby's thin, angry wail woke Skarnu in the middle of the night. Merkela stirred beside him in the narrow, crowded bed. "Hush," she told the baby in the cradle. "Just hush."

The baby wasn't inclined to listen. Skarnu hadn't thought he would be. He didn't suppose Merkela had thought so, either. With a weary sigh, she got out of bed and lifted their son from that cradle. "What does he want?" Skarnu asked. "Is he wet, or is he just hungry?"

"I'll find out," she answered, and then, a moment later, "He's wet. I hope I don't wake him up too much changing him." She laid the baby on the bed and found a fresh rag with which to wrap his middle. "Hush, Gedominu," she murmured again, but the baby didn't want to hush.

"He's hungry," Skarnu said.

Merkela sighed. "I know." She sat down beside the baby, picked him up, and gave him her breast. He nursed avidly- and noisily. Skarnu tried to go back to sleep, but couldn't. He listened to his son eat. The baby was named for Merkela's dead husband, whom the Algarvians had blazed. It wasn't the name Skarnu would have chosen, but Merkela hadn't given him much choice. He could live with it. Gedominu had been a brave man.

Little Gedominu's sucking slowed, then stopped. Merkela raised him to her shoulder and patted him till he gave forth with a surprisingly deep belch. She set him back in the cradle and lay down beside Skarnu again.

"Not too bad," she said, yawning.

"No, not too," Skarnu agreed. Little Gedominu was only a couple of weeks old. Already, Skarnu and Merkela had learned the difference between good nights and bad, fussy feedings and others. Skarnu went on, "One of him and two of us. He only outnumbers us by a little."

No matter how sleepy she was, Merkela noticed that. "Ha!" she said: not laughter but an exclamation. "That isn't funny."

"I didn't think it was," Skarnu replied. A new thought crossed his mind. "Powers above! How do you suppose people with twins or triplets manage?"

Merkela noticed that, too. "I don't know," she said. "They probably just go mad, wouldn't you think?" She yawned again. Skarnu started to answer, but checked himself when her breathing grew slow and regular. She had the knack for falling asleep at once- or maybe, taking care of Gedominu, she was too weary to do anything else.

Gedominu woke once more in the night, and then again at first light. That left Skarnu shambling and red-eyed from lack of sleep, and Merkela a good deal worse. As she put a pot on the wood-burning stove to make tea, she said, "It might have been simpler just to let the Algarvians catch us."

She'd never said anything like that while they were on the farm. But then, she hadn't had to contend with a new baby while they were on the farm, either. Skarnu went over and set a hand on her shoulder. "Things will straighten out," he said. "Sooner or later, they have to."

"I suppose so." Even though Gedominu lay in the cradle, awake but quiet, Merkela sounded anything but convinced. When she waved her arm, she almost hit Skarnu and she almost hit a couple of walls; the flat wasn't very big. That, to her, was part of the problem. She burst out, "How do townsfolk stand living cooped up like this all their lives? Why don't they run screaming through the streets?"

Her farmhouse hadn't been very large, either, but when she looked out the windows there she saw her fields and meadows and the trees across the road. When she looked out the one small, grimy window here, all she saw were the cobbles of the street below and, across that street, another block of flats of grimy yellowish brown bricks much like the ones here.

"Erzvilkas isn't much of a town," Skarnu said with what he reckoned commendable understatement, "and this isn't much of a flat, either. We'll do better as soon as we get the chance. For now, though, we're safe from the redheads, and that's what matters most."

Merkela only grunted and poured two mugs of tea. She took a jar of honey and spooned some into her mug, then passed it to Skarnu, who did the same. He sipped the hot, sweet, strong brew. It drove back the worst of his weariness.