David frowned when he reached the other werewolf again. The guy stood in a bubble of nervous onlookers, hackles raised and growling if they got too close. Behind him, wedged into the wall of people, stood the servant David had sent to fetch clothes.
David crossed the bubble, ignored the growling, and took the clothes out of the servant’s hands.
“Do you want to get dressed or not?” he asked, turning to the werewolf. “Then come with me. Unless you want to show your naked hide to all these people?”
The werewolf followed, just like David had expected. Up the stairs and into the castle they went. David had no doubt that George Louis would have assigned him a servant’s room, or maybe even a dog kennel. When he informed a steward that he was going to put the werewolf up in one of the quarters for visiting nobles from the country, the man stared at him in shock but didn’t dare argue.
Inside, David draped the clothes over the back of a chair, and asked: “Want me to wait outside? Or I can just leave,” he added when the werewolf hesitated. “Come back in an hour?”
That earned quite a vigorous headshake.
“Wait outside?”
Shrug.
“You want me to wait in here?”
Another shrug. The werewolf grabbed the clothes gingerly with his teeth and moved behind one of the high backed armchairs. Unlike Greg, who staggered around a lot while changing shape, this guy sort of seemed to flow together much faster and smoother.
“Gah,” he muttered, in a thick, nasal voice. “Bloody hell. Remember me?”
David frowned. In his human shape, the werewolf had dirty blond hair on the right, and darker brown hair left of his face. His eyes were brown and shaped like a wolf's, with no white showing, and his skin was sun-tanned rather than naturally darker. The guy's nose looked swollen like it had been broken in the fight, which didn’t make it easier to recognize him.
“Fenn’s the name,” the werewolf said. “Did a few jobs with your father. You are David Feleke, aren’t you? Kid who started hunting on his own?”
“Yes,” David said slowly. “I remember you. I just thought you were dead.”
“Faked it,” Fenn said. “Had a run-in with the Morgulon herself, thought I could be the one to cash in the reward. She disagreed.”
He struggled with the pants the servant had brought, which were way too big and wouldn’t stay up. “Great,” he muttered, and used the shirt’s arms like a belt, before shrugging into the simple vest. He sighed but apparently decided this was good enough. “Any chance they got a doctor who’d look at my nose?” he asked.
“I know where the palace-doctor has his rooms,” David said. “We can go and have a try, but I can’t promise anything.”
Fenn nodded and grimaced, carefully touching his nose, then pulling away again with a wince. “Can we go right now?” he asked. “Cobblestone to the face, no fun, I say.”
David nodded, and moved to the door. The servants darted out of their way and stared at them around corners. A noble saw them, screamed, and ran away.
“You’d think I was the one who raised the Rot,” Fenn muttered. “Not the one who killed it.”
“Who hired you?” David asked.
“Heard a rumour,” Fenn said. “That the wind is changing. Went and found Marianne at Desmarais’s. He first said I should go and protect the Torrent, but before I could leave, he changed his mind and dragged me here. Kept me in a shack behind the stables, warned me not to show myself to anyone just yet. Yesterday, the Morgulon showed up, right before dawn. I suppose that’s why they wanted the fight to happen today. The guards who brought us food said she’s supposed to return to the railway, fast as possible.
“How does a Feleke end up bodyguarding werewolves?”
“Long story,” David said.
“Your father’s still human, though, is he?”
“Yes, he is,” David said. “He’s around, I’m sure you’ll meet him.”
Fenn nodded, then reached for his nose again and swore softly.
The palace physician took one look at them and sent for a “specialist,” as he assured them. This specialist turned out to be the veterinarian from Desmarais’s estates, who had already treated Marc and Henry.
“Making a career of it, huh?” David asked.
“Have to make a living, don’t I? And I am the only trained doctor who’s ever treated a werewolf, ain’t I? They both lived, too.”
“Thought you’re a veterinarian.”
“Classically trained in Lydon, best college there is. I know as much about anatomy as any doctor, both of the wolf and the human shape. And I’m not going to try and bleed you, either.”
“Appreciated,” Fenn said, which sounded even drier through his stuffed nose.
“This’ll hurt,” the doctor said cheerfully, and then there was an ugly crunch.
Fenn swore, and blood trickled down onto his lip.
“I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “I don’t really have anything for the pain for you. Marianne didn’t want to assist me in testing substances.”
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“I’ll test some alcohol for you,” Fenn said. “Or opium, if you’ve got any.”
“Splendid,” said the doctor. “I’ll be right back.”
“Did he really treat other werewolves?” Fenn asked, as soon as the man was gone.
“Two kids who got bitten by a mad one, end of Janvier. He was a lot more hesitant back then, but they did both live, so I suppose he stitched them up fine.”
“Times are changing, all right,” Fenn muttered.
David could only hope that it would be a lasting change.
He left Fenn in the care of the doctor and went back towards the throne room. The summer solstice celebration shouldn’t have started until much later, but Desmarais was true to himself and must have warned the kitchen: A rich buffet was set up in the Grand Galerie, no doubt prepared over hours. Most of the nobles had flocked here. David watched as more and more of them walked in, and not just nobles. The press was gathering, too. The Galerie overlooked the beautiful gardens of the palace rather than the parade grounds where d’Evier had summoned the Rot, and it was big enough for a couple of hundred people to stroll about comfortably. Most importantly, the two dukes had retreated to the Salon Levant, the Sunrise Salon, situated at the eastern end of the gallery. The screens that usually separated it from the Galerie had been fully opened so that the two were visible to everyone.
Both dukes had prepared for this perfectly: Each one of them had a werewolf-cub with them. At Duke Desmarais’s feet lay Henry, to David’s surprise and concern. Andrew hadn’t mentioned this. And had it been four full moons already?
David didn’t recognize the werewolf at the side of George Louis, also a puppy, but older than Henry, with reddish-brown fur. A girl.
Both of them, no doubt, had been chosen for that special mixture of cuteness and formidability only a werewolf-cub could exude. David could only hope that they had been chosen well. Henry was six, for Sun’s sake. Even if he wasn’t mad, he could only be expected to have as much emotional control as any other six-year-old. In an entirely strange place. Without his mother.
Great.
The two dukes were talking amiably enough amongst each other, yet David could feel the tension in the air between them. Desmarais had never said whether or not he wanted the crown, but it was pretty clear that several of the Valoisian nobles would support his claim, should he make it. No doubt, he would have conditions tied to his renunciation of the crown. If he was even willing to relinquish it at all.
When David stepped closer to the empty space the other nobles had respectfully left around the open salon, Henry jumped to his feet to greet him. He had been given a large bone, with a good piece of meat left, and David managed to head him off just in time before the cub got blood and bone marrow all over him, or the ladies on his right and left.
Henry wagged his tail like an overexcited dog, and David could hear several people go, “aww,” at the sight.
“We can play later, Henry, okay?” David said, which caused even more tail wagging. David patted his head, and the cub returned to his bone.
Even George Louis noted: “You have quite a way with them. Despite the fact that you bear arms against them.”
David shrugged, which made the crossbow at his back jump. “They know who this is for.”
Strictly speaking, he had brought the crossbow in the morning, which felt like ages ago, in case deVale wanted to duel him. Bringing the silver bolts had just been habit.
He stood in the empty half-circle a little awkwardly. He hadn’t meant to actually talk to the dukes, had only wanted to listen in. After a second, he bowed to them. “If Your Highnesses will excuse me? I need to check on the last werewolf.”
“Do your duty,” George Louis said, and they waved him off. David retreated, a little annoyed. Now he’d have to go all the way down into the park, make it at least look like he was checking on Morgulon.
Luckily, he ran into Fenn just outside of the gallery. The werewolf had found a cord somewhere, which he wore as a belt, but hadn’t put the shirt on, anyway. David escorted him out onto the Grand Galerie. People barely backed away from them, though several ladies raised their fans to hide their shocked faces. David wasn’t sure if it was the fact that Fenn was a werewolf or his bare chest.
Fenn headed straight for the buffet, and David followed him.
“What a circus,” Fenn complained, once he had a full plate. “Didn’t nobody teach them that it’s rude to stare at people?”
“You are standing at the Grand Galerie,” David pointed out. “This place exists for the sole purpose of staring at people and being noticed oneself.”
Fenn huffed and turned back to his plate.
“Losing the shirt doesn’t exactly help,” David added.
“I bled on it,” Fenn grumbled. “Didn’t want people to think I already ate someone.”
“Probably wise,” David agreed. “Though now you might give some poor lady a heart attack with your – animal magnetism.”
Fenn barked a laugh at that.
“At least the food is good,” he muttered, mouth full.
David stuck to his side. He could see his father not far away, involved in a conversation that quite obviously revolved around Fenn. Fingers were pointed all around them, but so far, nobody dared talk to the werewolf himself.
Just as David emptied his plate, Lane walked up to them. She had changed and was now wearing a more practical dress and high-necked blouse, foregoing the full petty coats. Instead, she wore a broad leather belt, which accentuated her slender waist much the same, especially with the extra fullness the layered fabric gave to her chest. This was the only acknowledgement of current fashion. The sleeves were practical and closefitting all along the arm, without the big puffs and dropped shoulders all the other ladies wore.
Lane, too, had a crossbow slung across her back, and on her belt, a small quiver was fixed.
“Lane deLande,” she introduced herself before David got a chance.
“Countess deLande,” Fenn said slowly. “I heard.”
He eyed her carefully, from the hair, tied back tightly, to the crossbow and quiver.
“We all heard,” he added.
“Heard of what?”
“You dragged the Morgulon out of the mountains. Word travels.”
“I was under the impression that you and Morgulon didn’t like each other?”
“Nah,” Fenn said. “I tried to cut her throat, she bit me, that’s all. Could have killed me, but probably thought turning me would be a more fitting retaliation.”
“And how did you know she left the mountains?” David asked.
“Every living soul between here and Clyde’s Pass knows she moved,” Fenn said. “Or would know, if they knew to read the signs. I bet you, they’re losing more mail coaches on their way across the mountains already. Yet, around here, the Rot is retreating.”
He grinned wryly. “Mind you, twenty years from now I’ll have the same effect. Let’s hope I live that long, eh?”
“Let’s hope,” David said quietly.
Count deVale crossed the empty floor surrounding them. “You owe me a fair duel, Lord Feleke, for the beautiful lady’s favour,” he said, glaring at David, who nodded coolly, and then gracefully bowed to Lane, before looking at Fenn.
“Also,” the count continued, “I would be interested to hear what your price for a werewolf such as this one is.”
He eyed Fenn’s broken nose again. “I take it that this was one of the two we saw fight earlier?”
“This is Fenn O’Brien,” David said, emphasising the name. “And I would strongly advise you to think of him as a worker – or perhaps a mercenary. Rather than a slave.”
“We need a pamphlet,” Lane sighed a good hour later. “Something we can just hand out, so we don’t have to explain the same thing over and over again. I’m tired of this.”
“Me too,” David said. “But I reckon word will travel fast, don’t you think? Having something printed might be more trouble than it’s worth.”
“I doubt that,” Lane said. “Listen. Even in here, with Fenn right there, people are getting it wrong. Just think of what kind of rumours will sprout in the city.”
She was right, unfortunately. Rumours were spreading fast, getting increasingly absurd. Already, some nobles seemed convinced that it was merely a matter of willpower, or that only peasants turned into mad monsters.
“So you want to write a pamphlet?”
“Unless you want to talk to every newspaper from here to Mannin? We need something well-made, something that looks official. And all the town criers need to read it out, too.”
David nodded glumly. “I’ll talk to father. Maybe he knows someone with a printing press.”