Bram’s suggestion was to talk to Mr. Higgins, who was related to a newspaper mogul, so the next day, David rode through the city to pay a visit to his former teacher. As soon as he was out of the quiet street where his father’s house stood, he regretted not taking a cab. He had forgotten how crazy traffic in Deva was. Open carts full of goods and wares mostly pulled by oxen blocked the streets, and got overtaken by the much faster cabs pulled by only one sleek horse. Even slower were the street vendors selling out of their carts, trays, or other burdens. Riders like himself tried to find the quickest path through, and every few minutes the huge tramlines, pulled by a dozen heavy draft horses, or the slightly smaller city buses rumbled by. The very brave travelled on velocipedes, two wheels in line with a sort of frame on which the rider sat astride, the whole contraption moved via pedals, or steam cars, which gave off stinking black smoke. And there were so many, many people everywhere.

David shook his head. Maybe he really should marry Lane, retire to the country. He felt claustrophobic in the masses of pressing bodies.

Mr. Higgins lived in the worst part of town – one of the best, Greg would probably have said. The teacher’s generous apartment was located above a pub alongside the Imperial Chaussée, which was wide enough to hold military parades on the birthday of the Roi Solei, and an unofficial market in the middle any other day. Pubs and cafés poured their tables and guests onto the wide pavements, and artists showed their works to the masses of pedestrians.

David tied the reins of his gelding to a post outside the pub, and told the horse: “Wait here for me.”

He had little worry that anyone would manage to steal the gelding as he walked into the building, past the door to the restaurant and up the stairs, where he knocked at the door.

Mr. Higgins blinked at him in owlish surprise. He looked like David had woken him, despite the fact that it was past ten o’clock.

Mr. Higgins was a white man of about average height, quite slender, with brown hair and eyes. He was only in his mid-thirties but usually dressed like an elderly professor. Now, with his hair in disarray, he looked like a hung-over student.

“David?” he asked. “David Feleke?”

“Yes, Mr. Higgins,” David said. “I’m sorry for bothering you. Do you have a moment?”

“How is Greg?” Mr. Higgins asked back, straightening up a little. “And where is he?”

“He is helping to build the railway line along the Savre,” David replied. “Last letter we received, he was fine. Though Nathan did say that Greg missed his lesson in Valoisian grammar.”

“You’re in contact?”

“Of course we’re in contact.”

“Nobody bothered to tell me,” Mr. Higgins complained, but he opened the door all the way and stepped aside so that David could enter.

“I want to know exactly what happened to Greg,” said Mr. Higgins.

“How much time do you have?” David asked.

“As much as it takes,” Mr. Higgins said. “Tea? Coffee?”

“Coffee would be welcome,” David said and looked around a little uncomfortably. Unlike Greg, he had never visited Mr. Higgins at home. It was gloomy inside the main room, the windows covered with heavy curtains, and David needed a moment to get used to the low light. The whole room smelled strongly of old cigar smoke.

Eventually, he saw three walls lined with bookcases and cabinets, which were filled with volumes in several languages, journals, curiosities from all over the known world, and in one case, a collection of fine china plates decorated in pink roses. The last wall was covered in photographs, several of Greg, as David noted. A very modern camera stood in front of it. The rest of the room was stuffed as full as the walls: Three sofas had been arranged into a sitting group, with more display cases like museums used running around the back. What was inside those was hard to see, because they were covered in more photographs, journals, notebooks, and other pieces of paper, on top of which stood dirty mugs, plates, bottles, ashtrays, and glasses. It looked like the remains of last night’s party, or possibly several nights worth of midnight snacks.

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The floor, finally, was covered in stacks of even more books, shoes, and for some reason one of the new high-wheeled velocipedes, resting on its side. David had no idea how Mr. Higgins had even got it up the stairs.

“Have a seat,” Mr. Higgins said absentmindedly. “Cigar?” he added.

“No, thanks,” David said. “Actually, would you open a window?”

Mr. Higgins sniffed, annoyed, but he did wrap his dressing gown more tightly around himself and pulled one of the curtains back. He rubbed his eyes and sighed, when the sunlight streamed in, before pushing one of the windows sashes open.

“Now, about Greg?” Mr. Higgins asked. “He did get bitten, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” David said. “I’m sure you followed the news about Duke George Louis and his railway?”

“Are you telling me that Greg was one of the werewolves that allegedly saved Deva Castle yesterday?”

“Not quite. But the people of Eoforwic and Deva do owe their lives to Greg, even if he didn’t defeat the Rot yesterday himself.”

“Explain.”

“Greg made the discovery that a werewolf can fight the Rot. Or rather, he was the first werewolf who was willing to use this to help normal humans.”

Mr. Higgins insisted on hearing the whole story, of course, and even took some notes. When David was finished, he stared into the air for a long time.

“I knew your brother would go far,” he finally said. “But this is nothing I ever expected. A way to fight the Rot, truly fascinating.”

He stared down at his notes, and eventually shook his head. “I promised you tea, didn’t I?” he said and got up. “Or would you prefer something stronger?”

“Tea will do,” David said, though he really would have preferred coffee.

“What brings you here, anyway?” Mr. Higgins asked, while he fired up the ceramic oven in the corner, and placed a kettle on top.

“We are looking for someone with a printing press,” David explained. “To counter some of the wilder rumours that are going around with some facts. We need something to hand out to people, something that’ll look official. Something people will trust.”

“Those two are often mutually exclusive,” Mr. Higgins warned. “But I can help you with that, yes. I would suggest posters, too. How much may this cost?”

“I talked to Duke Desmarais last night, and he’s willing to spend a hundred gold coins, initially.”

“Meaning?”

“He wants us to try in Deva first, and if people accept the pamphlets here, we’ll try the rest of the heartlands.”

“What about further north and west?”

“West, we’ll have to see. North of Eoforwic, well, that’s George Louis’s territory.”

“So one hundred gold coins just for Deva, that’s a generous budget,” Mr. Higgins said, like a man talking to himself. “But how to make people believe... Would Greg be willing to talk to someone at Deva University? I could arrange a meeting with Prof. Audenne, chair of zoology. He’s very renowned and regularly speaks at all the important gentlemen’s clubs. He’ll want proof, though.”

“Before risking his reputation,” David muttered. “Greg is not available, it’ll take too long to drag him all the way to Deva. We don’t want it to become too public a knowledge either, that he got bitten. It won’t be too hard, though, to find another werewolf who can prove our claims. I’ll talk to Fenn.”

“Fenn being a werewolf or a fellow hunter?”

“Werewolf, but father and he used to hunt together. He’s the most powerful around here.”

“What about this Morgulon?”

“She will go back to the railway, today or tomorrow.”

“I see. Do you think this Fenn would be willing to appear at the university for a lecture?”

“I reckon,” David said. “I’ll ask. But it’ll have to be soon, Duke Desmarais wants to send him to protect the well of the White Torrent before the Rot overwhelms it completely.”

“Is there anyone else?”

“I can send a message to my mother,” David said. “Lee can do it, I’m very sure he will. It’ll only take him a few days to come to Deva. Or maybe Duke Desmarais will let us take Henry... But he’s a kid, only six years old. And he’s been a werewolf for barely four months...”

“You say that like it’s important.”

“Very much,” David said. “We can’t be sure yet that he won’t turn – well, rabid.”

“When can you be sure?”

David ran a hand over his braids, and explained the age-problem, both in regards to a werewolf’s sanity and power.

Mr. Higgins frowned. “The first thing we need are decent studies,” he declared. “We need to have reliable information so that all further decisions can be based on facts rather than superstition. Most importantly, we need to know how many werewolves go mad.”

“I’m not disagreeing,” David said. “But it’ll be hard to organize that.”

“Oh, I think we don’t need to worry about that. I’m sure, without the restrictions placed by the Church, there are plenty of men of science who’ll just be chomping at the bit to go out there and do some field studies.”

“That’ll still be dangerous,” David pointed out.

“Striving for new knowledge is always a little dangerous,” Mr. Higgins said airily.

David sighed inwardly, but let the point slide. Once the first researches got bitten, there was at least a chance that they’d get more werewolves.

“What exactly do you want on this pamphlet?” Mr. Higgins asked.

“That’s the tricky question,” David said and reached into his jacket. “I have written a few different versions, but I’m not sure – how much do you think people need to know?”

They spent the next couple of hours going over what David had already prepared and hashing out the exact text they wanted to publish. Then Mr. Higgins retreated to his bedroom to get dressed properly, and David left. Mr. Higgins promised to contact his friends and acquaintances at the university over the afternoon and join them for dinner at the Feleke townhouse tonight.