Carala merely looked at him, though that bitterness seemed to have left her face. "Go on, Master Cursewright," she said in a softer tone.

Ammas took a deep breath. What he was about to speak of was a secret he had kept for twenty years, and he meant to reveal it to no less than a daughter of the Emperor. "There is Meryk Orveil, whom you know of. But the journey to Summervale would take two months at best, and three or four nights where you could not control your change. I could not cage you, for the sailors would want to know why. Sailors are a superstitious bunch. They would surely hang or throw overboard both a werewolf and the cursewright who was foolish enough to bring her aboard."

"You are knowing sailors better than I was expecting, Ammas." Barthim's voice remained infuriatingly light and cheery. Ammas ignored it.

"Even if we took a small vessel, I am not much of a seaman anymore, and we would not make it to Summervale on a smaller craft across the Azure Sea in autumn without catastrophe striking sooner or later. There will be storms, and icy weather, and we might be forced to march along the coast for long distances. We might not make landfall on Summervale until the end of winter."

"And who knows how much of a wolf I would be by then?" Carala asked softly, looking away with a sniff. But no tears flowed, and she got herself under control quickly.

"That is also true, your highness. But there is another way." Ammas looked down, toying with his hat. Then he broke a promise he had made when the academies had burned around them all, so many of them put to the torch themselves, or hanged, or torn apart. "There is another cursewright I know. Not a working Vigilant or Adjutant as I and Meryk were at the end, but a true Matriarch. The Doyenne, in fact, of an academy not far from here. She was a teacher of mine, one of my best, and if she does not know how to cure your condition, I am certain she will be able to point us toward someone who does."

Casimir looked up at his master amazed. Carala didn't notice, and Ammas pretended not to.

"How far is this academy?" she asked quietly.

"A fortnight at the most. Five days if we catch the wind on the Straits."

"And you are certain of her knowledge?"

"It was she who made me a gift of the lunar manifest you admired, your highness," Ammas replied softly. "She knows much of blood sicknesses and how the moons rule them."

Carala nodded, looking down at the bracelet Ammas had refused as payment. When she looked up her face was as uncertain as he had yet seen it. "I need to think about this."

Ammas nodded and stood up. The others did likewise. "Take your time, your highness. If it is your preference, I will help you travel to Gallowsport or even Summervale, and if you accept my service I will not leave your side until we have found someone who can treat you. But my old teacher is the course I would advise." With a gesture he urged the rest of them out of the chapel, putting an arm around Casimir's shoulders.

The four of them huddled around the burning brazier in the chancel, warming their hands. Lena cast a look over her shoulder. "I don't know if you won her over, Ammas." In her eyes was a deep worry. "Your mentor? She has no reason not to tell the Emperor."

"Which is why you'll notice I didn't mention her name, or where she was Doyenne." Ammas fixed Casimir with a crooked smile. "And neither will you. I saw that look."

Casimir grinned. His research at the Libraries had been good for something after all.

"I think she is liking Ammas more than you know," Barthim murmured, surprisingly adept at keeping his voice down. Lena frowned. "I am not in the way of knowing many princes or princesses, but I had not heard they were eager to listen."

"Most aren't," Ammas agreed, remembering some of the highborn ladies he had met even before joining the fellowship.

"Well," Lena said, shivering her cloak about her shoulders as she stepped back from the fire. "Carala seems to be doing better. I hope she accepts your service, Ammas. She'll never make it to Summervale or Gallowsport on her own." With a sweep of her long blonde hair she turned toward the temple doors. "Now to see if I can keep Madame Laurette from skinning me alive."

"Send her to me if she is making trouble for you," Barthim the Beast growled.

"And me," Ammas added softly.

With a smile he glanced up from the fire, meeting her gaze. Her look softened, and Ammas was reminded how lovely she was, how much more she was than a brothel girl. "Remember what we talked about," she murmured, words that carried but which were not meant for either Barthim or Casimir.

Ammas nodded, watching her for only a moment more before turning his gaze to the brazier. It was with no small amount of relief he heard Barthim say to Casimir, "Come, Cass, show me this chess set you found in the Othillic midden. I knew none of those porridge-eaters could play the game worth a lump of pigeon droppings."

Casimir hesitated. "It's fine, lad." Ammas smiled down at him and squeezed his shoulder. "Go and have a game with Barthim." He raised his eyes to the bouncer and winked. "Maybe you can even let the bald fathead win for a change."

"Bald is better than those little girl's curls on your old and hideous head, my good friend," Barthim smiled, and with a clap of his hands allowed Casimir to lead him to his chapel room on the second floor.

Ammas returned his attention to the fire, thinking of his failure, of the weakness in his body he never spoke of until tonight, of Lena and her soft smile, of the Princess Carala and how he had started out imagining what it would be like to murder her and wound up fighting to give her his service. But most of all he thought of his father, that cool dry voice that could warm with affection at the unlikeliest times, and whether that voice would approve of the sentence pronounced on him by the princess.

"Master Cursewright?" Ammas donned his hat and moved with deliberation to the bedroom chapel. The princess was on her feet, a blanket wrapped about her shoulders to give her more modesty than the simple white shift in which Lena had dressed her. To his surprise, she was smiling. "I have decided. I will accept your service, and go with you to see this mentor of yours."

"I am very glad to hear it, your highness." He paused, but because he could not stand not knowing, asked, "What changed your mind?"

Carala held up her wrist, where the fabulous bracelet glittered. "You could have done anything you liked with this. You knew it was not important to me, but refused to thieve it. Whatever you want, it is not wealth. And that goes against all I have ever been told of your kind." Now she paused, her cheeks coloring a little. "And . . . your friends. How they spoke of you. How fierce they are. It . . . it reminded me of the way some courtiers speak of my brother Perseun."

Ammas nodded. Prince Perseun might have been the only good thing Somilius Deyn III ever produced, though he supposed that remained to be seen of his younger children. "I never met Perseun, but my father spoke highly of him. My uncle Gratham wanted him as a squire, but your -- the Emperor wouldn't permit it."

Carala peered up curiously. "I had never heard that."

"I imagine I have many stories of my family you've never heard, your highness," Ammas replied with more than a touch of acrimony.

The princess seemed to have heard it, but her response was soft. "Carala."

"Your highness?"

"Let us dispense with the titles -- Ammas. Your notice of consent ceased to mean anything before I was born." She smiled crookedly. "And someone tainted with the wolf's blood will never come near the Malachite Throne, or any other title, so why continue with the 'princess' nonsense?"

Ammas knew a little more about Imperial law than that, but saw no reason to argue with a truce. There were ceremonies to be observed, anyway. "Then let me do one last thing that befits your station, Carala." Ammas knelt, drawing his skymetal dagger and pointing the hilt toward her. "If you accept my service, take this."

Blushing, she did, the tip jiggling a bit as she gripped the hilt. "It's heavier than it looks."

"It's not so bad when you get used to it." Ammas bowed his head and closed his eyes, baring the back of his neck to the skymetal blade. "Upon the honor of my fellowship, in the name of the Doyens and Doyennes of the Academies Arcane, I swear to you, Carala Deyn, that my powers are yours until your affliction is broken, or I die in your service."

Ammas remained that way, awaiting the proper words. His knee began to hurt.

"Erm -- forgive me, Ammas, I don't know what to say."

He bit back a laugh. Never in his life had he had to swear this particular vow, and he wasn't even sure he got everything right. "Just tell me if you accept."

"Very well, I, Carala Deyn, daughter of the Malachite Emperor Somilius III, accept your service. Erm -- Ammas Mourthia. Oh. Rise."

Ammas stood, smiling faintly, and retrieved his dagger, sheathing it, still trying not to laugh. The situation was too serious. But even Carala did not look too stern, relieved, perhaps, that the cursewright she had risked everything to find might yet be able to help her. "When do we set out?"

"As soon as possible. Give you a few days to make sure you recovered from the failed cure, then book passage out of Fathoms Gate. And meeting my old mentor may be just the first leg of a longer journey."

"I've already made that first leg, Ammas. You know -- "

They both froze. From somewhere beyond the half-drawn curtain of the chapel bedroom had come a bloodcurdling scream.

Followed by the sound of howls.