Outside, rain came down in torrents, prattling against the windows, a sudden thunderstorm. Sometimes, lightning threw the sad state of the Grande Gallerie into stark relief. People sat around idly, many of them resting after the torturous day they had gone through, yet few of them actually sleeping.

Fear kept them awake.

Lane on the other hand felt herself flagging. She had been up since yesterday morning without proper rest, and as the lights inside and out dimmed, her body was demanding sleep. She had to suppress a yawn as she walked down the Gallerie to collect the prince, so that at least the boy could rest.

Picot was with him.

Damn that man. Why would he drag the boy away from his father? What was the point?

And worst, he was telling the prince in great detail what the doctors had said about the effects of death cap poisoning.

Damn that bastard. She had no patience left for his machinations.

“Your Lordship, I think that’s quite enough,” Lane interrupted him sharply. All that was missing was that Picot tried to draw the boy a picture of a half-destroyed liver!

“It is getting late. I rather believe its high time His Highness went to bed,” Lane added.

Before Picot could say anything, George grabbed her hand. “Can we go right now?” he asked, dark eyes wet, and showing the white all around. His face was pale and his grip was cold and clammy.

“I believe that would be best,” Lane said, trying to sound more gentle as she turned to him.

She waited as Annabelle swung around them—George was still attached to her, as if he feared she would disappear if he let go.

He shouldn’t be here at all. She shouldn’t have let Picot bring him here—or only as a concerned relative. Not as the prince and future king of Loegrion.

“Let’s stop with the Felekes, so one of them can escort you home,” Lane said.

Marquess Picot on her other side cleared his throat at once. “Milady, I’ve taken the liberty of having Duke Stuard’s rooms here in the palace made ready. Surely, after such a long day, we should save the prince the long trip?”

Not that long. And it would get him out of Picot’s immediate reach.

“Would you like to go or do you prefer to stay?” she asked. “I assure you, it would be no trouble to take you to and from the palace. Anna could go with you.”

And she would shoot any noble trying to stop the werewolf herself.

But the prince yawned hugely and muttered: “Don’t want to ride.”

All right then. That round she had lost. Picot gave her a small, triumphant smile.

Lane swallowed the sudden wave of panic at the sight. How was she going to challenge the man on his treachery? In front of all the remaining nobility?

She barely managed to keep Wardshire running, and only with extensive help from her loyal servants. She really needed allies to manage this crisis, keep the prince safe. Stop the country from falling into chaos. Prove Picot’s guilt and stop him from taking control of the palace.

But who was even still able to help? Imani would have been Lane’s first choice of help, but, well…

Lord Mire then, if he would even talk to her while all three of his sons awaited death.

Who else? Marquess deBurg was at Port Neaf, Marquess Pettau likely a traitor—what about his son at Port Neaf?

But David would have to deal with that.

Marquess Rover… Was her best choice, wasn’t he? Inexperienced as he was. Did he have his father’s spine of steel?

Lane supposed they’d find out, soon.

Marquess Malesmaines was back at King’s Haven, guarding his city. Could she get his backing?

But his backing on what? What was she going to tell them? That she was aiming for the crown?

Did she want that? And was Loegrion ready to be ruled by a woman?

It didn’t seem likely. And it wouldn’t endear her to people, either.

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No. No, she was being foolish. She wasn’t dabbling in politics at all, was she? All she wanted was to find the killer and prevent more deaths. As any upstanding person would in this situation.

Yes. That she could take to Lord Mire, and even Pettau—she was curious for his reaction. To the young Lord deBurg, too, who would possibly be the last of his family, soon. Desmarais’s daughter. Count Levier. Commander Bacrot. The old Lady deVale.

Lane tried to think of more names while the prince briefly said good night to his father, tried to think of the best order to approach them, then decided the best order was fast.

“Can the werewolves help?”

George’s quiet question made Lane jump. She really had to be tired if she had missed the sound of the door and the giant wolf walking up.

“Hopefully,” Lane said.

The boy reached for her hand again, ignoring Picot’s offered one. Score for her?

Lane glanced at the Marquess and caught him throwing a hateful look at Annabelle, which made her decide not to say anything more about the werewolves’ help right now.

Besides. She absolutely shouldn’t promise anything she couldn’t deliver. The last thing she needed was for someone to accuse the werewolves of not doing everything they could for the human sick, just because she had set expectations too high.

Lane walked the prince to his father’s apartment, waited for him and Annabelle to go inside, then firmly closed the door behind them, right in Picot’s face.

“Lady deLande,” the Marquess protested promptly. “Shouldn’t we—”

“His Highness is old enough to go to bed on his own,” Lane said.

“Yes, but the werewolf—”

“What about her? It’s five nights until full moon. There’s no risk of her losing control.”

“You don’t think she might try to turn him? While he’s a child and his chances are better?”

“No.” Lane crossed her arms over her chest. “No, I really don’t think she will. Not least because she would never leave the palace alive if she tried. Werewolves don’t live as long as her unless they have a healthy sense of self-preservation.”

Picot spluttered something unintelligible, waving his arms angrily. Lane almost laughed at him. “I do think Anna won’t take kindly to her charge’s sleep being interrupted, and I shall send for additional guards from the Stuard estates. The prince’s governess, too. His tutors, if they’re willing to come. He should have familiar faces, especially right now. There is no point in scaring him further.”

“Lady deLande,” Picot protested again, “I would on the contrary argue that we should all be very scared indeed right now!”

Lane pulled herself up. “And what good would that do, Lord Picot? What good does scaring a boy, a child, ever do?”

“It might lend some much needed perspective,” he said, waving his arms again. “Some— realism! We’ve lost at Port Neaf, Lady deLande! You know that, and I know that, let’s stop lying to each other! We’d have had news hours ago, if the battle were going well.”

“You don’t know that,” Lane said sharply. “They might simply be busy. General Clermont might have decided not to give away any more information until the traitor here at the palace has been found. The battle might still be undecided that’s not the same as lost.”

She took a deep breath, looking him up and down. “There are a too many possible reasons why we haven’t heard anything, and the only way you could know for sure was if you had sources not from within Loegrion.”

Lane waited for a reaction from him, some kind of tell, maybe even an admission of his treachery, but he was too smart for that. He just folded his hands over his stomach, looking at her earnestly. “But what if I’m right? What if the battle was lost, if the Valoisian army is landing at our shores as we speak? Wouldn’t it be wiser to surrender now, while we may still have some options to negotiate?”

“If the Valoise are landing at our shores right now, then we shall throw them back,” Lane replied, throwing back her head.

“What if we can’t? Why—why risk it in the first place? Why would you allow this war to spread—maybe all the way to Deva? For what? A man who will be dead in a few days? Just think of all the women who will be widows, helplessly violated by the aggressors—We can still appeal to the mercy of the Church of Mithras, but we have to do it now!”

“Only Mithras Himself can grant mercy to the sinful,” Lane said softly. “His Church may only ensure they stand before Him promptly. Or is that no longer the doctrine of the Inquisition?”

She didn’t wait for Picot to come up with an answer to that. “Do you really think if we open the gates for the same aggressors you just brought up, that our women will be spared?”

Lane laughed then, laughed in his face. “I was raped twice by men of the Church, first by my home town's priest, and then the husband my father picked for me. I was beaten till I could not stand by the man many hailed as the next High Inquisitor. The Church of Mithras wouldn’t even know how to spell mercy! I will gladly take the coin toss and face His judgement on my own, before I put my fate into the hands of Valoisian men again.”

She took a deep breath. “Likewise, Loegrion has been savaged by the Empire, squeezed out of anything useful in taxes and tributes, while our men bled overseas for the Roi Solei’s stupid wars and never ending greed. I shudder to think of the reparations they would demand of us now. In fact, I believe if Loegrion is to survive at all, we have no choice but to fight on and fight with all our might.”

“All the werewolves’ might, isn’t that what you truly mean? Will you truly make us all slaves of monsters rather than subjects of the Empire?”

“There have never been slaves on Loegrian soil,” Lane replied curtly. “As Lord Gregory Feleke pointed out at Breachpoint not too long ago. I see no reason to change that.”

Picot pulled himself up as if to argue back, then sighed and suddenly deflated. “Perhaps we should continue this discussion after some rest,” he said. “Clearly, we’re all fraught with nerves. Perhaps you will be open to discuss the future of Loegrion tomorrow?”

Lane really didn’t see any point in talking about the issue further. But she nodded. “I hope you will rest well,” she said.

“You too, Milady. Good night.”

Lane waited until he actually walked away before she turned around, then jumped when she realised Greg was standing in the middle of the corridor.

So had Picot turned tail so suddenly because he didn’t want to debate them both, or because Greg was a werewolf?

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“It’s fine,” Lane said. “I have no idea what we’ll do about him, but it’s fine.”

“Good,” Greg said. “I just wanted to let you know that Laurent is on his way from First Camp. Are you going to catch some rest now?”

Lane smiled weakly. “I’ll try. What about you?”

Greg shrugged. “I’ll find a couch at the Grande Gallerie. Or just turn wolf

and curl up on the floor.”

“Good night then,” Lane said.