By the time Clement reached Alrin’s pristine townhouse, the shadows had nearly overcome the light. In the spotless parlor, a painted screen concealed the cold fireplace, and the discreetly drawn summer curtains billowed delicately in the evening breeze. Here Alrin sat with her feet on a stool, dressed in clothing as light and loose as her billowing curtains. Her gravid belly, her rich breasts, these were discreetly displayed by the light cloth. She offered her hand, apologizing that she did not rise. Weak‑kneed, Clement bowed over her cool, delicately scented fingers, and said in a rough voice, “I trust that you are well.”

“I miss your company, of course.”

“Of course,” said Clement, trying not to sound skeptical. With the garrison tight as a lockbox and every last soldier working dawn to dusk on rebuilding, Alrin’s business must have suffered terribly. Clement did not quite know what to make of the message, passed on verbally through the gate guards, inviting her blandly to supper. Was Alrin resorting to unseemly recruitment? Yet Clement had come, and had even, with some effort, taken something resembling a bath, and put on a uniform that wasn’t as filthy as the others.

Alrin, never awkward, created topics of conversation from thin air. Over hot buttered bread and deliciously vinegared vegetables, she pretended interest convincingly as Clement obliged her with an account of the garrison attack. Over fowl in aspic and jellied fruits as lovely to look at as they were to taste, Alrin entertainingly described a disastrously bad concert she had recently attended. Over peaches and cake they both praised the fine weather and expressed hopes that it would be a late autumn. Clement turned down brandy, accepted tea, and sat sipping it by the window, stunned by such a quantity of tasty food after so many months of deprivation. Alrin asked her for the fourth time if she had eaten enough, and if she didn’t want a few biscuits or a nice piece of cheese.

Clement said, “If I ate any more I’d fall unconscious. It’s very kind of you to rescue me for a few hours–but the commander will go into a panic if I don’t return soon.”

The courtesan smoothed the cloth over her pregnant belly.

Clement, who had only observed pregnancy from a distance, caught herself examining Alrin’s round, taut abdomen with fascination. Alrin said complacently, “My last child.”

Clement glanced up at her face. “How do you know?” she asked. She had heard that Shaftali people knew some methods for preventing pregnancy besides the obvious one practiced by the Sainnites, of simply forbidding sexual congress between men and women. Clement herself felt no particular desire to do what men and women do with each other, but soldiers of both sexes would bless her if she could learn the Shaftali secret.

Unfortunately, Alrin’s answer was unrevealing. “You haven’t heard that I’m leaving Watfield in the spring? Marga wants to move south, where the winters aren’t so hard. So I’m going into the window and bottle business, purchasing a glassworks.”

“I hadn’t heard,” said Clement. “Windows and bottles?” she added, trying not to sound overly doubtful.

Alrin said gravely, “I do understand business.”

“Of course you do. You’ll be missed. I wish you well.”

“Thank you. Marga and I will be very preoccupied with running the enterprise, we expect. This child–it’s unfortunate, but we can’t possibly raise it. It will go to its father, as is proper.”

Quite belatedly, Clement realized, as Marga came in to clear the table, that the stout woman was not Alrin’s housekeeper, but her wife.

“If the father is interested,” said Alrin, as Marga left with a loaded tray.

Clement, feeling dreadfully embarrassed, poured both of them more tea to save Alrin the trouble of standing up, and also to give herself a chance to recover her own composure. “I heard there were several interested parties,” she said.

“Oh, well,” said Alrin vaguely. “Sometimes fate intervenes.” She accepted the teacup with a gracious smile. “It is presumptuous of me to even suggest you might help me a little. But I valued our friendship, Clem–”

Clement, though she was commenting to herself on Alrin’s acting ability, felt a brief surge of desire.

“–and I dare hope you might sometimes think of me fondly,” continued Alrin. With the teacup at her lips, she gave Clement a steady, suggestive look.

Clement said, “All officers are lonely. You gave me something I wanted, and I did appreciate it. Is there something I can do for you?” Of course there would be–Alrin had not invited her to supper out of compassion because the people in the garrison had nothing but slop to eat.

“A great man like the general must want a legacy,” Alrin said.

“Cadmar?” said Clement. “Good gods!” And she began to laugh, and could not stop herself. “I beg your pardon,” she managed to gasp at last. “This child is his, then?”

“It might well be,” said Alrin stiffly. “As you know perfectly well.”

Clement wiped her eyes. “I’ll mention it to him. But I can tell you now that you’d better find another candidate.” She set down her teacup and stood up. “I’m sorry I offended you. Thank you again for the delicious meal.”

“Must you go?” said Alrin. She offered her hand for Clement to clasp. “Must you?” she said again, pointedly.

But Clement’s flush of desire had evaporated. She bid Alrin farewell. She’d never see her again, probably, and she certainly would not even mention this absurd conversation to Cadmar when he returned. But it would be great fun to recount to Gilly.

Five days later, a bugle signal at the main gate announced Cadmar’s return to Watfield. Clement was in the middle of dividing, replanting, and top dressing her mother’s flower bulbs. She went down to the main gate with horse manure caked on her knees and her pockets bulging with bulbs. There was a scuffle outside the gate as soldiers forced back the crowd to allow a clear passage for Cadmar, who glared with fierce dignity from the back of his magnificent, nervous horse. Once or twice, Clement spotted Gilly, gray and drawn, mounted on a sturdy brown nag. Both he and his horse looked rather bored, though they were tangled in a knot of escorting soldiers who were busy with their clubs. She had missed that ugly man! When they were in, and the soldiers had gotten the gate shut, then the soldiers on the walls remembered belatedly to cheer the general’s arrival, though the angry shouts of the crowd outside the gate were louder, and less demoralized. Ellid had arrived, and stepped forward to make the official greeting. Cadmar dismounted and clasped the garrison commander’s hand with every appearance of geniality. But Clement heard him say, “Shoot the rabble.”

“General,” said Clement, stepping forward hastily. “We’ve tolerated these people’s presence–better a few people at the gate than a roused city. And the weather will drive them away soon enough.”

“Tolerate?”Cadmar’s gaze was without comprehension. “Are you a farmer now, Lieutenant‑General?” He wrinkled his nose at the manure stink she carried with her.

“I beg your pardon, General. You’ll find your quarters ready for you. And the stable has been rebuilt, so your horse will also be comfortable.”

Looking past his shoulder, she caught Ellid’s gaze. The commander looked rather pale, but at Clement’s glance she gave a slight nod. Clement soothed Cadmar until he allowed that he was tired, and let himself be convinced to go to his quarters and be looked after by his long‑suffering aides. When he was gone, Clement said to Ellid, “Give the citizens fair warning first, and then shoot over their heads. They’ll run out of shooting range, at least, and then you can send the guard out to disperse them.”

Clement turned and found that Gilly had been helped from his horse and was leaning unsteadily on his cane, observing her with a rather red‑eyed, dubious expression. She offered him her arm, and he leaned on her heavily. “The horsewill be comfortable?” he rasped, apparently in the throes of a summer cold.