When Greg returned to the Grand Galerie, still dragging the servant along and dressed in the emergency suit he had stashed at David’s—now Lane’s—office, the place was in a state of quiet panic. The watch had been summoned, and so had the doctors. The guests were clustering around the latter, many of them clutching at their chests and bellies, while the doctors handed out tinctures. The former poked around, checking the food on the buffet and the splatter on the ground where the tray had been dropped, not touching the food.

Andrew stood with a watch officer at a table. Another group of nobles was gathered around them, watching nervously as Andrew inspected a dish. There were already a couple of plates to his right side, but this one went back to the buffet with a watchman. Greg thought he heard people sigh in relief at that.

Another plate was delivered promptly, but Andrew pushed it back right away. “I told you, ignore the fresh mushrooms.”

So that dish went back to the buffet, too.

In a corner, frightened servants were being herded by the palace guard. As Greg slowed, Lane walked over, a couple of more guards in tow.

“This is the servant?” she asked, and before Greg could do more than nod, she turned to the men following her: “Take him to the cells. Do not let anyone close to him. Check the food you serve him. If anything happens to this man, I’ll hold you responsible for that. We need him alive for questioning.”

“Should I…” Greg trailed off, glancing around uncertainly. He didn’t want to go down to the cells with the prisoner. He wanted to talk to Thoko and check on his parents, and find out what the hell was going on. But Lane was right, they couldn’t risk losing their witness.

Wait. Where were those servants going with all those buckets?

“Let the guards do their job,” Lane said. Softer, she added: “I might still need you up here.”

She looked pale, Greg thought.

“How bad is it? Are you feeling well?”

“I have been fasting all day,” Lane said. “So yes, I’m fine. Everyone else…” She fidgeted with her fan, running her fingers through the folds. “The beef dish Andrew first warned us about was amongst the ones that were served at the war council. Unless the attacker is incompetent, we have to assume that the dukes have both been poisoned, though you might be interested to hear that Lord Picot stuck to the trout.”

“Picot, huh?”

Lane smiled grimly. “He’s like a bad penny, isn’t he?”

Picot had been the one to hand the poisoned food to the dukes, too. Pushed it at them, really. Just like he had pushed David at deVale. And he had been at that casino when David’s office had been searched.

“We’re going to need proof,” Lane added. “Or a confession. Keep an eye on him, will you?”

“Me.”

“You can’t be poisoned and he pretends to like you. And chances are, in a few hours I’ll be the highest born noble in the whole palace who isn’t puking their guts out.”

“What about my parents? Thoko?”

“No one knows,” Lane said. “I’m sorry, Greg, but everyone is asking the same thing. Andrew is checking all the dishes, but given that they’ve been refilled throughout the night… It’s just impossible to tell who ate what at this point. It’s going to take hours until symptoms appear. Until then—”

She grimaced when somebody retched close by.

“Until then, the doctors are handing out tinctures to make everyone throw up everything they ate.”

So that was what the buckets were for.

“Did someone call for healers, though?” Greg asked.

“Everyone with a spark of magic is being roused as we speak, Greg. Bishop Larssen is hanging around.”

“Has he been fasting, too? How convenient.” Greg sighed. Larssen, too, might have been receiving the spy’s intel at the casino. “I’ll go looking for Picot,” he said. “Just let me check on…”

He trailed off, searching the room for his family. The Grand Galerie was rapidly turning into an infirmary, as servants carried in seats and even simple beds, and curtains to separate them. The small palace sick wing would hold barely a fraction of the nobles milling about worriedly, and apparently it had been decided not to split everyone up into the city’s hospitals.

Thoko caught his eyes, waving. She was standing with Imani, who had accepted a seat. Greg hurried over.

“Did you get him?” Thoko asked. “How’re you feeling?”

“How am I feeling? I’m fine! You’re the ones who…”

Might die. No, would die, if they had eaten from the wrong platter tonight.

“I didn’t eat the preserved mushrooms, remember? Andrew is quite positive that that’s where the danger lies.”

“I didn’t eat much of it,” Imani said, sounding hoarse. “And not all the mushroom dishes appear to contain the death cap.”

“Father?”

“He says he’s fine.” Imani rested her chin in one hand. “He knows mushrooms, too. Not quite as well as Andrew, and neither of us was paying much attention to the food. But maybe…”

Greg looked at his mother. A sheen of sweat stood on her forehead, but her dark skin looked dull underneath that, without the usual lustre.

“You don’t look well,” he pointed out.

“Well, I’m scared,” his mother admitted freely. “And whatever drought the doctors are passing out certainly isn’t helping. I feel like I threw up everything I’ve eaten all week.”

“Let’s hope so,” Greg muttered. He looked around the room again.

“Your father is with the dukes. The doctors decided to separate them after Lady deLande’s testimony,” Imani said. “Who’re you looking for?” she added, when Greg just grunted.

“Lane mentioned that Marquess Picot stuck to the fish. She’d like me to keep an eye on him.”

“How sure are we that you won’t be affected?” Thoko asked. She glanced at Imani, then him, clutching her hands together as if to still her fingers.

“Morgulon said it can’t be done,” Greg reminded her. “And it’s a waxing half moon. I might be worried if it was new moon coming up, but this way…”

He rubbed his neck. “Don’t worry about me,” he added. “You’ll be here?”

“I believe so,” Imani said. “Go find your suspect.”

“I’ll be back in a bit,” Greg promised.

Picot was talking to a doctor when Greg approached. The Marquess received one of the little glass vials the physicians were handing out, then approached a servant who had a stack of buckets. Greg shuddered and decided that he didn’t need to watch that next part.

If he was the traitor, Picot was certainly dedicated to the act.

If he wasn’t, well, a bit of nausea was probably nothing compared to the risk of death cap poisoning. Andrew had used to warn him about it when he was much younger, to stop him from picking up random mushrooms in the forest. It was a slow, gruelling death. By the time the first symptoms appeared, the poison had spread throughout the body and doctors could only ease the suffering. Only healers could help. A little.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Even magic hadn’t saved the late Marquess Rover.

Had that been the same poison? Had they ever found out for sure?

Greg stared at the buffet, at all the uneaten food. By now, most dishes had been checked by Andrew, forming a line of “safe” serving trays. Shame to waste so much. The watch was taking away the ones that were suspected of poison for further inspection. Only the test servings remained at the table with Andrew.

Without really thinking about it, Greg picked up a slice of cheese to munch on, which earned him a shocked gasp from a lady walking past. Greg shrugged and helped himself to another piece. It wasn’t like it could hurt. And nobody else was going to eat this spread.

Good food, too.

When he turned away from the buffet, Picot looked just as sweaty and pale as the other nobles. He was back to talking to a doctor. The physician looked harried, polishing his glasses aggressively.

“...no way to tell, Your Lordship. Not at this point. I depends on what mushrooms were eaten, how much of them, how long ago, how much was digested before the attack was noticed and an emeticum applied…”

“But if it is the death cap,” Picot pressed the doctor. “What should we expect? What—what are the odds?”

“I would not wish to speak to that,” the doctor said. “Panic will not help. We do have some healers, and ways to mitigate the worst magical side effects.”

He pushed his spectacles up his nose and pointedly looked at Greg.

Picot turned around and smiled tersely, wringing his hands. Worried? Acting?

Greg had no idea how to tell the difference.

“Lord Feleke, it’s good to see you. You won’t be affected in any case, will you?”

“That’s right.”

“There’s a relief. I have to confess, I wasn’t looking forward to managing this crisis alone.”

Greg raised his eyebrows at him.

“Mushrooms don’t agree with me,” Picot explained, smiling ruefully. “I did follow the doctor’s recommendation and took one of the tinctures, but simply as a precaution. I rather believe that if I had eaten a mushroom dish, I wouldn’t have needed the draught. Whereas the rest of the council…”

He trailed off. “How are your parents?”

“Worried, as everyone else. What about the rest of the council?”

“Well, I suppose Lady deLande might be unafflicted,” Picot looked around and lowered his voice, “but your brother has confirmed that the food delivered to the council was containing the mushrooms. The doctor assures me it will be a few more hours before we know for sure, but I’m wondering if it wouldn’t be wiser to raise the prince right away.”

“I’m sorry?” Greg asked.

Picot couldn’t truly mean—

“Prince George of course,” Picot said. “Surely, it would only be proper to turn to him while his fathers is—inconvenienced? Duke Stuard was not crowned, but I would assume that any lord of Loegrion would be willing to treat the situation as if he had been.”

Greg had some serious doubts about that. Not least because Prince George was a child. It would be years before he came of age.

“Obviously, His Highness would need advisors, people familiar with the situation at hand, not just here, but at Port Neaf, too,” Picot went on. “Which is why I think we should rouse him early. We wouldn’t want Count Levier to get to him first, would we?”

Of course.

Greg had to admit, he rather admired Picot’s nerve.

“Don’t you think your brother would back the prince?” the Marquess asked, looking innocent.

What if Picot was right? What if more nobles turned to Prince George? Seeing his father lying sick would be scary enough even if George Louis survived. The kid didn’t need a bunch of old men trying to influence him to do as they said on top of that.

“I don’t think David is the problem,” Greg said slowly, thinking fast. “We will need to move quickly. And find someone trustworthy to take him here. Would you mind if I send a message to my brother Nathan?”

“Is he not here?”

“Nathan doesn’t really do parties,” Greg shrugged.

Picot beamed at the suggestion. He had to be quite certain that he could win the prince over. Which suggested he didn’t know about Annabelle, or that Greg and George had already met.

He better write a telegram to Nathan, and then find Lane, let her know what was going on.

And someone should let David know. No, wait, he’d probably be fast asleep by now. Was there any point in waking him up? It would hardly help morale if word spread right before the attack.

“I would wait,” Lane suggested. “At least until there are symptoms, for either your family or the dukes. It might well be morning by then. Also, we have to make sure that we can do it without Picot finding out.”

***

The sun was rising by the time Nathan arrived with Prince George. Picot was quite unhappy about the delay, but seemed to have bought Greg’s deflection that a boy needed sleep and would be hard to rouse in the middle of the night.

The Marquess didn’t need to know that Nathan had gone to Windish first, to pick up Annabelle and alert Desmarais’s oldest daughter to what was happening. And apparently, Morgulon had decided to come, too.

Greg barely glanced at them. Imani was sick.

Only, sick didn't quite cover it: She’d been retching up bile and blood for the past hour, and so were most of the nobles present. Amongst them were Charlotte and her mother, which had quietened the rumours that they had been behind the assassination attempt.

Greg and Thoko, Andrew and Bram were sitting around her bed on uncomfortable stools. Bram pushed himself out of his seat when he saw Nathan coming up with the prince.

“Must’ve been a killer party,” Nathan said when he reached them. Behind him, the prince was staring around the gallery, wide-eyed and pale.

Greg wasn’t sure if he wanted to hug or hurt his brother for making that tasteless joke in front of Imani and the boy. Andrew had no such problems.

“Been thinking about that line all night, haven’t you?” he asked back, without looking up. He was holding a bucket for Imani. She was barely strong enough to hold her head over the openig, even as one of the apprentice healers fussed over her.

The kid, probably a couple of years younger than Greg, was struggling already, but when the two elders looked over his shoulder, he sighed and a soft light flared between his hands, quickly dimming. When he pulled them back, Imani’s eyes closed, but she seemed to be breathing easier.

Not that it would last long. The apprentice couldn’t purge the poison from her body. No healer could. It would just keep circulating, until it turned her liver to mush, as one doctor had so beautifully phrased it. Unless the healers kept pouring magic into fixing the damage until the body expelled it on its own.

It wasn’t called death cap for nothing. People didn’t survive eating them. Not without a lot of magic. And even Bishop Larssen was already looking drained.

Doctors couldn’t help at all.

Prince George had dug his fingers into his mother's fur and held on as if it was the only thing keeping him upright. Annabelle threw her head around.

This place stinks, she commented. But the healers are doing a decent job. Not much corruption in the air yet. Let’s get this over with.

Greg reluctantly ran a hand over Imani’s shoulder and got up. Nathan took his place at her side at once. Morgulon settled down at his feet.

***

Picot stood in the centre of the room, with Lane at his side. Greg and she had traded off watching the man sometime after midnight, once Lane had eaten something. Greg had wanted to be with Imani.

“My Prince: Lady deLande and Lord Picot of the council.”

Greg felt for the boy, who straightened his back and let go of his mother, though his voice trembled a little when he greeted them formally. Then he added: “I want to see my father.”

“Of course,” Picot said. Lane nodded more hesitatingly.

“This way, Your Highness,” the Marquess said. And then he jumped when Annabelle stepped so close to her son her head loomed over his shoulder.

“My personal werewolf guard,” the prince explained. His face briefly lit up. “Her name is Anna. Lord Nathan picked her for me.”

Picot had to visibly catch himself. “Most prudent, my prince, most prudent. If you will follow me.”

Greg brought up the rear as they walked over to the proper palace infirmary. Picot was talking up front, describing the situation and why the prince had been called. He barely touched on the state George Louis was in, though, and Greg didn’t think Young George was listening at all.

Unlike the Grand Galerie, the infirmary was a small, quiet room. Only a couple of nuns were present, and Greg saw a single, older physician resting on a stool in a corner. Two beds were taken, separated by curtains. The palace’s resident healer sat outside the little verstibules they formed. His white robe was dirty and sweaty already. He looked even more tired than the dozing doctor, but he jerked up when he saw the prince.

For a moment, Greg thought the healer would protest against this visit, but then the old man offered his hand to the child.

“Some privacy, please?” he grumbled at the rest of them.

Greg nodded and turned to hold the door for Picot and Lane to leave. Annabelle made no move, the prince once again holding onto her.

Picot didn’t miss it. “The prince seems—awfully familiar with that werewolf,” he said once Greg closed the door behind himself.

“I believe they knew each other before,” Lane replied smoothly. “David left a note about it. A loyal servant even before she was bitten.”

“An excellent choice then,” Picot said, but Greg saw him frown.

They milled about the hallway in silence. Greg expected the prince to take his time, but after just a few minutes, the boy emerged, crying hard. Inside, someone was retching.

“We will find whoever is responsible for this,” Picot said quickly. Lane kept, thankfully, quiet.

Greg offered his hand to George and was surprised with a full-body hug.

George Louis was too weak to talk, Annabelle explained.

“Can the werewolves help?” George asked. “Save him?”

“I will ask,” Greg promised.