Although Ammas wished with all his heart that his father had turned a deaf ear to the conspirators who had come to him for his assistance in removing Somilius Deyn III, he never blamed him for going along with them. Ammas took another long, slow sip of water as the voice of his father asked him questions the real Senrich had never put to him, and which he had certainly never encountered on any of his exams. The voice of his father was as dry and crisp and resistant to anything but cold logic as it had ever been when he took the High Bench of the Grand Curia in Gallowsport.

The prisoner is the daughter of Somilius Deyn III. She claims she is an infected werewolf and tells a convincing story. There is no evidence this is a ruse or a plot by her father to ensnare the cursewright-in-exile to whom she has gone for help. She is aware of the crimes the Emperor has perpetrated against the cursewright's family and his fellows but she was in no way complicit with them, being born after their commission. She has asked the cursewright for aid, rather than threaten him or use the power of her father's name to have him captured and brought to her. What is the sentence?

Oh, papa, I can't, I can't, after what he did to you, to mama, to Jan, I don't care --

What is the sentence, Ammas?

Don't make me, papa, please don't make me do it, I can't --

It is not a crime to be born to Somilius Deyn III. With that in mind, what is the sentence?

Diagnose her. Treat her. Cure the wolf's blood sickness. Send her on her way back home. No -- I withdraw that last. She is alone and unfamiliar with the world beyond Talinara. Contact the Chalcedony Palace via a third party to come and retrieve her.

Excellent, Ammas.

Ammas Mourthia opened his eyes, thumbed away a tear, and with the full ewer in one hand and the cups in the other, returned to the temple to complete the interview with his newest client, and if she would permit, to begin her course of treatment.

The Princess Carala looked a little more composed, but still decidedly agitated, perhaps simply to be in the presence of a man who had every reason to hate her father, and whose own father she had been raised to despise herself. Hastily she tucked her hands together on the table, though it didn't spoil the courtly way in which she occupied her chair. Ammas realized after a moment she had been toying with his hat, intrigued, perhaps, by the sigils and charms that dangled from its brim. Casimir had been quite as intrigued, and eventually had to be gently rebuked not to try the hat on when Ammas's back was turned.

"Apologies, your highness, for the delay. The pump outside sticks." He was relieved to find his tone was brisk and professional, not the half-strangled sibilance that was all he could muster upon his realization of her true identity.

Carala shook her head. "It is quite all right, Master Cursewright. I have a lot on my mind. I hardly noticed you were gone."

In spite of himself Ammas smiled a little as he poured them each a cup. Carala did not make an issue of it, but he noticed that she would not drink until he had taken a long sip himself, folding himself into the chair across from her as he did. Perhaps she wouldn't have been as easy to poison as he thought. "That is kind of you, your highness, but before the Academies were shuttered, I was never granted that title."

She had looked away when she sensed her father in the offing, but turned a curiously thoughtful expression on him as Ammas corrected her. It reminded him of his fellow students' concentration during the many examinations he had sat at Sailor's Crown. "Oh. Then is it Cursewright-Vigilant? Or Cursewright-Adjutant? I am afraid I don't know what your position was when your fellowship was disbanded."

Normally that anodyne word disbanded would have raised no small amount of bile in him, but again he found himself impressed against his will. "You know the ranks?"

She shook her head. "Not well. When I was younger I conducted tours of the Maathinhold ruins for visiting nobles. I studied what I could about how your colleges functioned."

"I see," he said, his voice again composedly neutral, though his heart ached at the mention of the Maathinhold, which he had only seen on a handful of visits, awestruck every time. "Well, your highness, in the interest of no false modesty, if you wish to call me Master Cursewright, I won't stop you. But I would prefer Ammas."

"I do not know if I am."

"I beg pardon?"

"Highness. A princess. Do werewolves retain noble titles?" A bitter laugh crackled through her lips, and she looked down with a sigh. "I apologize, Master -- Ammas. It's only in the last few days I've even had a bed to sleep in, much less time to consider my situation. There were times I feared I would never survive the journey from Talinara."

"Werewolves are rather robust, your highness. I think you might have had more in you than you believe. If, in fact, you truly do suffer from the wolf blood sickness."

A trace of the haughtiness Casimir had noticed back in the cells surfaced in her expression. This was not a woman used to having her word doubted by anyone but the Emperor himself. Certainly not by the fugitive son of a man who had tried to depose her father. "Are you saying I am a liar, Master Cursewright?"

"Ammas."

She did not correct herself, only continued to glare. Ammas smiled.

"No. I am sure you believe your story entirely. This would be a hellishly long trip to make if your only goal was to play a prank on one of your father's enemies."

Mentioning the Emperor might have been a mistake, as she only bristled further. "Oh. Oh, yes, I see. Not a liar, but mad, a madwoman, is that it?"

Ammas's smile was gentle but his heart was pounding at the thought that he had unwittingly queered the interview, no doubt because of his foolish, grieving, outraged heart. He managed to maintain that faintly apologetic expression. "Madness is something I must disprove, but that is not what I was thinking, your highness."

She looked less perturbed but still wary. "Then what are you thinking?"

"Not madness, and not a lie. Before we go any further, your highness, we must discuss my fee."

"Fee?" To that point Ammas had found Carala's voice rather pleasant, if a little hoarse from rough nights on the road, but on that single syllable it nearly reached a pitch fit to shatter crystal. Still, he was unruffled.

"Your highness, you say you studied my fellowship. Did you ever read we worked for free?"

She said nothing to that, but the look of exasperated surprise on her face was nearly comical. "Master Cursewright, do you have any idea what I have suffered to get here?"

"Some. I need to hear more before I can treat you, however. But before I hear that -- "

"You want gold. Of course. Well I have none, Master Cursewright, all my gold is back in Talinara, so perhaps I should go get it for you and leave you to -- "

As she was halfway out of her seat, Ammas gently touched her wrist. She looked shocked -- not in the outraged manner of a pampered noble who cannot imagine a commoner touching her, but in an almost relieved surprise. Ammas had expected this. All his studies on those who suffered the wolf's blood sickness told him they craved touch, for they felt apart from their former race and feared they would never be welcomed by such again.

"No, your highness. I do not want gold."