Varthlokkur was pacing, oblivious to his companions. The King stepped into the wizard’s sitting room, watched him for half a minute. “You’ve got a classic gait,” he observed, chuckling, “Get any sleep?”

“A little.” As if only suddenly aware of location and situation, he asked, “Shouldn’t I be in there?”

“Does she want you?”

“I don’t know. Wachtel doesn’t.”

“I see his point. Made a nuisance of myself at a few birthings. Fathers may be good for the mother’s morale, but they’re hell on doctors and midwives. At least till they’ve had enough kids to know when to keep their mouths shut.”

“I could help. I have skills….”

“I think the main help Wachtel wants is a closed mouth. He needs you, he’ll ask.”

“I’m well aware of his opinion of me.”

“How’s she doing?”

“All right, they say.”

As if on cue, the doctor came from the bedroom. He was drying his hands.

“Well?” Varthlokkur demanded. “Is it here?”

“Take it easy. No. She has a long way to go. It’ll come around midnight, I’d guess.”

“Guess? What do you mean, guess?”

The old doctor scowled. “I meant what I said. I don’t have your faculty for seeing the future. All I can do is go by past experience.”

“The future? My heavens. I forgot to cast horoscopes for the child.” In moments he was furiously busy. He flung charts and books, pens and inkwells onto a table. “Guess I’d better do both today and tomorrow,” he muttered. “Midnight. Damned.”

The King grinned at the doctor. “That’ll keep him out of your hair. See you all later. Duty calls.”

Pink ripped the night above Castle Krief. Bold letters formed: IT IS A GIRL. People were amused. The King was heard to say, “Wizard, that’s carrying the Proud Papa routine a little far.”

Grinning, Varthlokkur accepted congratulations from a horde of well-wishers. He sprinkled silver. He filled the castle halls with diminutive magical delights. Imps dashed about singing silvery hosannahs. The wizard’s joy was contagious. He shook hands with people who never had dared approach him before. They contracted the joy-fever and carried it to others. It spread out of the castle and caught on in the town. Winecasks rolled out. Kegs were bunged. For a while it seemed one birth, and one man’s pleasure in it, would write the end of an era, would put paid to the long, grim, sober struggle for survival which had ground the nation since the war’s end.

“Eat! Drink!” Varthlokkur urged, pushing people toward the groaning tables he’d set out. “Come on, everyone.”

“Make way for the King!”

The noise died a bit. King Bragi pushed through the crowd and thrust out a meaty hand. “It was a long time coming, wasn’t it? How’s Nepanthe?”

“Perfect. Came through beautifully. Happy as anyone can be.”

“Good. Good. Can I see my wife now?” He had sent Queen Inger to hold Nepanthe’s hand during the delivery, the only meaningful gesture that had occurred to him.