He could guess what this was about. Markus. Mabel had seen the both of them, and it would seem she didn’t much like the comparison. A loyal little militia girl like her just couldn’t keep her mouth shut, not with so many things in this world that could wear a man’s face. He should have known. He had known. But his Death had told him to come here—

In retrospect, taking advice from his Death may have been the problem.

It didn’t matter right now. Running. If they’d had a banner up for running, if that was a job, then he’d have been more than qualified. Where he was running, he had no idea. They were closing the gate and there were no other ways open that he could see and it would take too long to get himself over the wall.

Thoughts for later. For now, staying out of the rat catchers’ hands was his only goal. He bolted before they could shout, before the rest of the crowd could realize what was going on, before the whole force of the militia had it out for him.

He didn’t know what was around the side of the courtyard, but that’s where he was going. The stables, apparently. If he could find somewhere to hole up, wait until they let their guard down—

He sprinted along the building’s side. There were no convenient nooks or crannies or secret trap doors he could hide in. He could hear boots pounding behind him. More than one pair. With any luck they were close enough that the bowmen on the walls wouldn’t risk a shot. Because what would be even better than getting tackled from behind? Getting shot and then tackled.

A loud whistle cut the air.

A moment later, a furry heap bowled him to the ground. The wiry wolfhound set her paws on his back and snuffled companionably at his hair. By the time he’d rolled over and shoved her off, there was a circle of crimson around him and the whole of the castle grounds knew there was a rat hunt afoot.

Aaron sat up slowly and tried not to look like someone that needed stabbing. The wolfhound licking his black hair into spikes helped with the image, he hoped.

“Any weapons you have, lay them on the ground and slide them away,” a young lieutenant said. His skin was dark as the Iron Captain’s. Another competent southerner in His Majesty’s employ. Fantastic.

“Is there a problem, sir?” Aaron asked.

“Any weapons you have,” the man repeated. “Lay them on the ground, and slide them away.”

Very slowly, Aaron lifted up the edge of his shirt so they could see the dagger hilt. He took it out, set it on the ground, and slid it towards the lieutenant.

The man caught it with his foot and kicked it even farther away. “Just that?”

Why did people keep asking that? Daggers were perfectly good weapons, thank you. “May I ask what I’ve done?”

“Lay down and cross your hands behind your back.”

“I was just here for the interviews—”

“Don’t make me ask again.” The man was sick of repeating himself, apparently. Since he was the one with the sword, standing shoulder to shoulder with others, Aaron conceded the point. He laid down on his stomach and crossed his hands behind his back, nice and ready to be tied. The usefulness of this was somewhat dampened by the dog that promptly lay down on top of him.

The lieutenant didn’t seem to find any amusement in the situation. To be fair, neither did Aaron. “Farrington, can you call off your hound?”

The kennel master was only now catching up at a leisurely walk. He’d let his dog do the running for him. “What’s he done?”

“There’s another boy lying dead in an alley, wearing his face.”

The older man frowned. “A bit bold for a doppel, isn’t it? He’s been here since morning.”

There was something almost accusing in the redcoat’s voice. “You noticed him?”

“He interviewed with me,” the man shrugged. “Shirley likes him. Didn’t seem like he needed reporting.”

The lieutenant sheathed his sword with a sigh. “Just get the dog off, please. The Lady will sort him out.”

Another whistle brought Shirley back to her master’s side. Aaron stayed still as the lieutenant planted a knee on his back and bound his hands, but only because moving seemed a good way to see his own blood.

“You’ll be fine, boy,” the kennel master said, as the guards dragged him past. “As long as you’re human, you’ll be fine.”

He really believed that.

Aaron shot him a hopeless grin. “You uptowners are all kinds of trusting, aren’t you? Trust your militia, trust your guards, trust your king—”

One of the guards cuffed him on the back of his head.

It wasn’t the first he’d been in the castle. Whenever there was a public trial, the council chambers were opened up. He’d been to one when he was younger. They’d hanged the man. It had sounded like a festival day by the time all was done.

The halls were much as he remembered. Wide. Stone walls. Tapestries of each noble house lined the walk: griffin and kirin, leshy and kelpie. The royal dragon hung centered and proud, rampant on a field of red. They said blood nobles took their emblems from the thing they were best at killing.

The O’Sheas might as well have skipped the mockery and put a man on theirs.