Lane watched with Duke George Louis as the palace guard took away Marquesses Picot and Pettau, and Count deVries, who tucked his hands underneath his armpits until the guards manacled him, as if he were afraid somebody would press his hand into the brazier. Lord Mire watched, too, with Lord Feleke’s hand resting heavily on his shoulder. Nathan, likewise, was held back by Andrew.

They still had to question the traitors, find their co-conspirators. Find out who their link into the kitchen had been. Vavre’s killer. How—or if—they had contact to Rambouillet.

Once they were taken away, Duke Stuard clapped his hands weakly. Morgulon turned around to him, barking once, just like Laurent had earlier.

“Thank you, Morgulon,” the duke said gravely. “I will return to the infirmary now. I leave the affairs of Loegrion in Countess deLande’s capable hands. Perhaps, some of the favour of Mithras shining on her will fall on the rest of us, too.”

He took several deep breaths, as if he were already tired from those few lines. “I trust in Bishop Larssen, Lord Mire, and Lord Feleke to back her. In fact, I hope all of you will back her in the trying times ahead.

“Make no mistake,” he added. “The Roi Solei was behind this attack.”

He looked around the hall again, then shook his head. “May Mithras be with us,” he finished.

There was no applause, just a deep silence as the duke slowly turned away. Moving stiffly, he made his way towards the exit, his son on one side, Annabelle on his other. Despite his careful pace, he stumbled before he was halfway across. He would have fallen straight on his face if Annabelle hadn’t crouched down in front of him, steadying him with her shoulder until one of the nurses had run over to help.

Lane slowly let go of the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. She couldn’t bring herself to look away until the duke had safely left.

She was still unseeingly staring at the closed door when a guard got her attention.

“Which cells should we take Lord Picot to?” he wanted to know.

Right. Back to work.

“There should be free cells at the werewolf dungeon,” Lane said. Picot would hate that. “Just put him there. There’s nothing to worry about, though, not until full moon.”

She craned her neck until she spotted Commander Bacrot.

She’d need his help in the ongoing investigations. Picot and Pettau had been rather helpful in trying to shoot their way out—nobody would demand proof of their treachery for a while. It had bought them time, but they still needed to hurry.

Lane patted Morgulon’s shoulder, and the she-wolf followed her promptly. “You followed the trail of Vavre’s killer?” Lane asked. “Would you show Greg and a few guards?”

Lane ended up tagging along, too, as Morgulon led the way to an office door. It turned out to belong to Picot’s personal secretary.

The guards made short work of the door lock, revealing an upturned room and documents smouldering in an overstuffed fireplace. The secretary was nowhere in sight.

“We’ll find him,” the guards promised even as they jumped to save as much of the documents as possible.

Lane left them to it and returned to the Gallerie with Morgulon. The mood there was tense—word had already spread that Count Levier had backed the traitor’s suggestion of surrender, and as soon as Lane entered, a distraught Lady Ferris wanted to know why the count wasn’ being arrested, too. Young Rover was unhelpfully railing against Levier.

“We cannot arrest everyone who fears the coming war,” Lane said, in what she hoped was a gracious tone. “Should any actual evidence against him surface during the investigation, we will of course take steps.”

Morgulon behind her huffed and went to check on her cubs, looked after by Thoko in her absence. She settled down for them to nurse.

Lane turned back to Lady Ferris to inquire about the health of her husband and daughter.

Neither was doing well. After three days of fighting against the poison, many healers were reaching the limit of their magic. Bishop Larssen was just sitting down next to the nest of werewolves, and he wasn’t the only healer drifting over to bask in the power of the elder. Even Pierre didn’t seem to have as much to offer them as Morgulon.

Lady Ferris glared at the gathering of healers, her lips pressed together to a thin white line. She shook her head at the sight, but then turned to Lane to ask: “Shouldn’t the little ones have—something to play with? It must be bleak, to grow up amidst all this death.”

“They’re very young,” Lane said. “They’re not playing much yet.”

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“Still. A rattle, perhaps.” Lady Ferris looked over again. “I’ll have the servants bring something.”

And then she glanced back at her daughter, sleeping the unnatural sleep of the sick, a hand resting on her swollen belly.

“Thank you,” Lane said. Was there anything else to say? Any comfort to offer?

But no words came to her.

She had almost turned away, when Lady Ferris spoke again: “Lady deLande? Will you—pray for them?”

At least that was easy to answer. “I will include your family in my prayers, yes,” Lane promised.

It was a plea repeated over and over as she made her round. They had seen her reach into fire and come away unburned. And Mithras was their last hope.

Nobody was dying just yet, and most patients were still lucid enough to grasp what was going on. However, in this war of attrition, the healers were running out of powder faster than the insidious death Picot had unleashed.

One of the beds Lane stopped next to had a patient who wouldn’t stop bleeding. The cut was small, but it would not close, drenching the bandages and then the sheets even at a trickle. Other patients were feverish, their limbs swollen, their eyes turning yellow.

It was when they couldn’t stay awake that death was lurking around the corner, the doctors said. They were still around, even if they couldn’t do more than ease some pains. They had more knowledge in reading the symptoms than the healers, which was important since there were some very few people who were in better states and might not need the healers’ help at all.

Usually, they still got some attention from the healers. Simply because they were still suffering.

Lane silently thanked Picot for pushing to have everyone stay together at the palace. He had probably meant to keep better control of the situation. Now it meant no family with the gold to spend could drag half of the healers to some chateau and leave everyone else to die. Bishop Larssen had put his foot down and stopped the inevitable bribes before that had really taken off.

Hopefully, it wouldn’t mean that the healers stretched themselves so thin trying to save everyone that they didn’t save anyone.

Hopefully, Morgulon could prevent that.

But why weren’t the healers gathering around Pierre the same way? Morgulon couldn’t be that much more powerful, could she? She was a few years younger, after all—even if she had been born a werewolf, could it make that much of a difference?

Something was going on here, wasn’t it?

But before Lane could follow up on the thought, something wiped it from her mind: A soldier—a young lieutenant—was walked onto the Gallerie by a guardsman of the city guard.

“Message from Count deVale,” the soldier announced, looking past Lane around the Gallerie. “I’m supposed to report to whomever is in charge?”

“That would be me,” Lane said. It felt weird to say it. She expected the soldier to scoff at her or to challenge her, but while he kept looking around, he didn’t argue the point.

Lord Feleke was walking over, and Commander Bacrot was just jogging through the doors, so Lane waited for them before she prompted the soldier again: “Is Count deVale on his way? How many troops does he have?”

The soldier snapped a quick salute at Commander Bacrot, but then he did turn back to Lane, shaking his head. “The Major is still gathering the scattered men. He wants to wait until full moon, to see—well, to see.”

“Does he have a place to wait out the full moon?” Lane asked.

The young soldier nodded. “He’s preparing. But I have good news, too: Scouts have been able to confirm that Lords deBurg, Pettau the younger, and Lord Relentless have been captured by the Valoise. They’re alive.”

“Pettau the younger,” Lane repeated. “He’s been taken prisoner, too?”

“He shares a cage with Marquess deBurg and Lord Relentless. They’re being held in one of the werewolf cages. Is his father—? We had news that…”

He looked around the Gallerie again. “What happened here? I’m to report that back.”

Lane glanced at Commander Bacrot and Baron Feleke.

“I believe a written report is in order,” Commander Bacrot said. “A lot has been going on here.”

“Where is Duke Stuard?” the soldier asked. “And Duke Desmarais?”

“Duke Desmarais is dead,” Lane said. “Duke Stuard will be eager to hear your news. I believe it’s best if you tell him in person, to see the whole of the situation.”

The soldier gaped at her, but followed her promptly. “What happened here?” he asked again as they walked past the rows and rows of sickbeds.

“Lords Picot, Pettau and deVries conspired with Rambouillet, poisoning the food at the entertainment at the eve of the battle with death cap mushrooms. Have you served under the younger Lord Pettau?”

“I—no, milady. I’m of Count deVale’s own forces. I haven’t seen any sign that there was treachery from our own commanders, though. Lord Pettau has served with distinction throughout the siege.”

Lane nodded to show that she had heard. Interesting. She was curious to see what Picot’s and Pettau’s own families would say of the treachery. They’d be questioned as soon as they had been rounded up.

She was curious to see how that would go. Hadn’t Greg said that Pettau had been flirting with a strange woman at the casino? Maybe the family truly was divided on the best way forwards?

She knocked against the door of the infirmary. A nurse poked her head outside, face grim. “News from the front,” Lane said, loud enough to be heard inside, before the nun could try to send her away.

She barely made out George Louis’s order to let them in.

“Tell me you have good news,” the duke rasped, struggling to sit up as they came in.

“Some,” Lane said. “Lords deBurg and Feleke have been captured by the enemy alive. As has been Lord Pettau the younger.”

George Louis gave up on trying to sit and let his head fall back. “Has there been a ransom note? They are officers. Are they being treated accordingly?”

The lieutenant shook his head. “No ransom demand had reached Lord deVale as of this morning, when I was sent to inform you. There has been no contact at all from the Valoise, except for some pamphlets calling us to surrender, thrown from an airship. The enemy has locked our men, officers and soldiers alike, but does not appear to be taking any measures against the moon phase, either, which is why Lord deVale intends to wait and see how they will fare.”

“Our own captured lords appear to be quite safe,” Lane added quickly, as all colour left the duke’s face.

“How so?” he asked.

“The Valoise have locked our prisoners into the cages set up for the werewolves,” the lieutenant explained. “Our scouts weren’t able to tell if they fear they might transform, or if it’s simply a form of insult.”

“The cages will keep a werewolf out just as they keep them in?” the duke asked.

“They will, Your Highness,” Lane confirmed.

He closed his eyes. “So there is hope yet,” he whispered. He turned his head away, muttering something else. Lane thought it was, “I just want to see him again,” and she really hoped nobody else had caught that.

She glanced over her shoulder. Monroe was helping out the Royal Healer. One of the elders Lee had found. Not somebody she knew anything about.

Great.