The castle was at a standstill. The gates had been closed despite the protests of the people who hadn’t left for the city in time, while the guard had been doubled. Even some troops newly arrived that morning were pressed into service. The servants who weren’t under lock and key were walking on eggshells to avoid attracting the steward’s wrath.

On his way down to the kitchen, Aldor thought back once more to his incredibly good fortune. The courtesy of making a new dish had been all that had saved him.

“We need a tester,” he muttered to himself.

The kitchen staff had been locked up in complete darkness. Absolutely everyone was in the cells—cooks, maids, assistant boys. In the meantime, the baron was focused on finding that second partridge or, at the very least, its victim. The influx of refugees meant that every handful of grain was accounted for, and somebody had to have noticed the delectable aroma the roasted bird would have given off. But the kitchen servants swore up and down that they hadn’t touched it. Judging by the fact that they were all in good health, they were probably telling the truth, too. Hans did the best he could, digging through all the jars and baskets in the kitchen, sticking his nose into all the vats of leftovers and trash. But there was nothing to be found.

Taking a break, the baron stepped out into the inner courtyard, desperately needing fresh air and a few seconds of peace. His aide, nervously looking around, followed him. Regardless of the falling darkness, the courtyard was as packed as one might have expected the market square to be at noon—servants ran around shouting, while soldiers glanced nervously into the tents the refugees had pitched against the walls.

Aldor nodded in the direction of the tents and grimaced inquisitively. A guard shrugged, throwing his arms up. One noisy breath later, the baron headed quickly toward the refugees, though he was stopped suddenly when someone grabbed his arm. He turned around in annoyance to see a refugee woman with a vaguely familiar face.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she said. “Hame and Uts, my kids. They’re missing.”

“If you talk to one of the soldiers, they’ll help.”

“They don’t want to talk to us. I wouldn’t be bothering you if they did.”

The baron tried to gently extricate himself.

“There’s a problem in the castle,” he said, his voice as calm as he could make it. “We’ve had to reinforce the guard, the gates are closed, and your children won’t be going anywhere. Believe me, I would happily go looking for them myself, but I’m really busy. Please, forgive me.”

Finally, he awkwardly pulled his arm free of the worried mother’s iron grasp.

The woman hissed something angrily at him as he walked away. A pang of shame hit him—he really wanted to help her and would have if he could have, but there was no way right then.

Two soldiers stepped up to him right then. By their weary faces, Aldor could tell they were from the detachment that had arrived that morning.

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“Your Grace, we found something.”

“What?”

“Two boys.” One of the soldiers waved in the direction of a large woodshed. “They were hiding in there.”

“Their mother was just looking for them. Let her know—she’ll be happy to hear the good news.”

The second soldier’s face darkened.

“The boys are dead.”

Hans turned pale. Looking around, Aldor made sure the refugee woman was far enough away that she couldn’t have overheard the conversation.

“Show me.”

They quickly crossed the courtyard and went around to the side of the woodshed. One of the soldiers handed Aldor a torch. Seeing the little bodies, the baron took a step back, though he gathered himself just as quickly. The pair bore a striking resemblance to their mother. One was light-haired and dirty, a couple years older than his towheaded brother. Aldor let out a mournful sigh. The boys’ eyes were shut as if in sleep, drops of oil glistening on their half-opened mouths. Holding the torch closer, the baron poked open one of their mouths, revealing the same string of whitish foam he’d seen on Irital’s lips.

“And there’s the second partridge,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry?”

“Nothing. Hans, let their mother know and come find me immediately in my office.”

“As you wish.” The pale young servant stood up slowly and set off shakily in the direction of the tents.

Baron Aldor den Grauer straightened heavily and walked toward the manor house on equally wobbly legs. He left the torch with the soldiers—knowing every nook and cranny of the building as he did, there was no need for light.

If Brother Aristid was right, the boys hadn’t suffered. All he could do was hope that had been the case and pray for their souls. Later, the baron couldn’t say what the people he walked past in the main hall were talking about, only vaguely remembering how he got to his chambers laden with a heavy sense of guilt.

Aldor should’ve done something earlier, back when Gregor had first mentioned his strange desire. But he hadn’t. Instead, he’d fancied himself the top dog, putting his friend’s beloved in danger as a result. The move probably wouldn’t have helped with the poisoner, but Aldor would have been able to say confidently that he’d done everything possible to protect Lady Irital.

But it was too late then. Although, maybe not completely.

Hans was already waiting in the office. As soon as the baron opened the door suddenly, he took a scared step away from a cabinet and hid something behind his back.

“Show me what you’re holding,” Aldor barked.

The boy obeyed, and the steward saw a bottle of herbal liqueur he’d grabbed from the Order’s cellars. Aldor had held onto it in memory of the dark years. Also, he tended to prefer Gatson wine to the strong stuff Hans was holding.

“Forgive me, Master,” Hans said quietly. “Everything that’s happened today has me so scared, and I was afraid to take something from the kitchen. What if everything down there is poisoned?”

The baron said nothing. Instead, he took two small glasses from a shelf, filled them both, and handed one to Hans.

“You could’ve asked,” he finally replied reproachfully. “I wouldn’t have said no.”

“I was ashamed. I won’t do it again, Your Grace.”

“You drink first.”

Hans smiled grimly, understanding his master’s request, and downed his glass in a single gulp. Tears appeared in his eyes.

“Oh…that’s strong!” he croaked.

The baron waited until he was sure Hans wasn’t going to give up the ghost before drinking his and staggering a few steps. The liqueur really was strong, even enough to knock out a Rund. Aldor had forgotten what it was like.

“Better?” he asked when he caught his breath.

“Yes. It burns—nasty.”

“I’m going to need you soon, so stay here.” The baron sat down, lit a few fat candles, pulled a ring with Voldhard’s seal out of his pocket, and started writing a long letter.

Once the ink was dry, Aldor handed the sealed package to Hans.

“Take the fastest horse you can find and leave today for Givoi. Give this to Artanna nar Toll, and don’t come back without the Hundred, Hans. And please, I’m begging you, hurry.”