Next door, inside the Prideful Lioness, Carala was getting her first look at a brothel for herself. Whatever she had been expecting, it was a surprisingly pleasant place. The rooms were tastefully appointed, if the furnishings were nowhere near as sumptuous as those of the Chalcedony Palace or even Talinara's finer taverns and inns. It might, however, have passed as one of the capital's more midrange salons, one that belonged to a once-prominent House that had fallen on hard times.

Truth be told the princess was only barely registering her surroundings. The image of Lena lying in the street seemed branded on her eyes, and even without that terrible sight she was being roughly if kindly passed from one Lioness girl to the next in an effort to disguise her. Never in her life had her face been painted with makeup this heavy, nor had she ever worn clothing this revealing or thin. Her entire midsection was exposed, and she nervously kept the sleek dark green silk wrap around her hips as high on her waist as she could. Perhaps Ammas was right that no one here could read heraldry, but surely if they noticed the Deyn family crest inked on her hip, the same one all her siblings and even her father bore, there would be uncomfortable questions.

Casimir had disappeared. There were many hiding places and cubbyholes he knew well from his years in this place, and in which one he had ensconced himself no one seemed to be sure. There was, however, a marked reduction in the pile of fruits and cakes on the table in the parlor where the Lioness girls met most of their customers.

That parlor was where Carala now found herself. Barthim's man, Drusis, knelt facing a corner with his hands laced behind his head, having been divested of his club at Sergeant Cayle's insistence. Seated in couches and on chaises and chintz chairs around the room was a baker's dozen of Lioness girls, plus Carala. Madame Laurette stood in close conversation with Sergeant Cayle, looking more at her ease despite her disheveled hair. Every now and then, though, Carala noticed a glance pass between Laurette and Selene, the latter's eyes narrowing and an angry set twisting her mouth for the briefest of moments.

Whatever Laurette was saying to the Sergeant, so far he seemed satisfied. The Lioness girls themselves were not much like Carala had imagined prostitutes to be. They were pretty, yes, but under the flaking makeup they looked hard-worn and tired, even though most of them were not much older than herself (and the one who had raised the guard, Yula, looked distressingly younger). There was a quiet, almost submissive quality to most of them, though how much of that was from the nature of their work and how much was because of what had just happened to Lena, Carala didn't know. She hoped, at least, that on most nights there weren't this many tears.

Finally Laurette turned to them, tightening her shawl around her neck. "All right, girls. Sergeant Cayle is going to ask some questions about what happened. I've told him that I didn't actually see it, so I don't know who was there. Just tell him what he needs to know and the guard will do what they can to find Lena's killer. And," her gaze flicked ever so briefly to Carala, "if it has anything to do with the man next door, be sure you tell him."

Madame Laurette drew back, just beyond the arched doorway that led from the parlor to the kitchen and pantries, watching the Sergeant apprehensively. Cayle was tow-headed and looked younger than Lyros, and was not all that uncommon a sight here at the Lioness, though this was the first time any of them had ever seen him wearing a sergeant's medallion. With a hard smile he stepped into the middle of the parlor, one hand fingering the hilt of his truncheon.

"All right, my lasses," he said in an unctuous tone that made Carala's skin crawl. It reminded her of an unflattering impersonation of Varallo Thray -- a bad one. "I know this has been an ugly business, but I'm sure most of you know a werewolf attack doesn't just come out of nowhere, especially not in a city like ours. We're not on the edge of a wilderness here. So first -- who saw what happened?"

Drusis peered over his shoulder. "I did."

Cayle prowled over and clouted Drusis on the back of the head. Some of the girls winced. They knew no guardsman would have dared such a thing with Barthim. While Drusis was competent and not the sort of man to mistreat the girls, he hadn't the Beast's easy way with the guards, nor did he have his natural affinity for intimidation. The Sergeant bent down and snarled in Drusis's ear: "When I want your version of events, I'll ask for them. Now keep your nose pointed at that corner until I'm ready to hear from you." Cayle clouted him again and turned his attention back to the girls.

"You want to know what happened, he saw what happened, what do you care what we tell you?" Selene's voice dripped with venom, and Carala wondered if Cayle would get away with striking her so easily. "Go get Sergeant Lyros. Him, I'll talk to. You still owe the house ten silvers, if I have it right."

Cayle flushed angrily and rounded on Selene. "You're lucky I don't want to spoil your face," he hissed, thrusting his nose almost against hers. Selene didn't back down, glaring in a way that Carala certainly wouldn't have wanted to be eyeball-to-eyeball with. She had never known many girls like Selene -- probably none, to be perfectly honest -- but she thought she had known enough spiteful highborn girls to recognize one who wasn't afraid of using her claws.

She doesn't have claws like mine though, she thought, and had to stifle a shrill laugh.

Cayle rounded at once. "You. Stand up."

Selene and Carala's eyes met a moment. Selene's mouth was pinched shut as she nodded. All right. She'd play along. Smoothing down her silks, Carala rose to her feet, smiling nervously at the glowering Sergeant.

"You're new here, aren't you?" asked the Sergeant, leering as he ran a finger along the edge of her midnight hair. "Yes, I'd remember this shade of black. Want to tell me what happened tonight? Help your friend out there in the street?"

"I -- I really did not see," she whispered. Never in her life had a uniformed man looked at her in this way. Never mind the deference and even kindness shown by her father's household guard and the occasional military visitor to the Chalcedony Palace. Even the solders in the Three Harts who hadn't known her had regarded her with an air of camaraderie, if their looks might have been a little flirtatious. But this man showed nothing but sneering contempt and a loathsome greed.

"No, maybe you didn't. But you know something." Cayle's face grew suspiciously friendly. "Don't you want to help your friend?"

Carala swallowed hard, remembering how Lena had looked sprawled in the street, this girl from the lowest possible place who had been so kind to her and reassured her as she lay strapped to the altar, waiting for Ammas's useless cure. But she remembered Ammas's words, too: keep your head down. So she only shook her head. "I don't know anything. I am sorry."

Cayle's face grew hard again. "All right. Your choice, whore. I can question you at Titansgrave as easily as I can here."

Laurette spoke up, her voice strained. "Sergeant, I'm sure that's not necessary, any of my girls will be happy to tell you -- "

"Shut your fucking mouth," Cayle snapped, not looking away from Carala. Laurette frowned, but seemed at a loss how to get this guardsman under some kind of control. "Now," he said in a voice so low it was nearly a purr. "You're very new. Fresh-faced, even. I bet you're not even properly broken in yet."

Carala flushed hotly but didn't drop her gaze. "I do not even know what that means, Sergeant." It took a great deal of effort to keep her voice even.

"I'll show you when I get you to a cell at Titansgrave." Selene hissed like an angry cat. "What's your name, anyway?"

For a moment the word "Mari" danced on her lips, but then she remembered Ammas's description of the various pretend-highborn ladies who could be found here from time to time. So she fixed her lips into what she hoped was a coquettish smile, and said, "I'm the Princess Carala Deyn."

Pain crashed into the side of her head hard enough nearly to knock her to the ground. Cayle hadn't struck her with a fist, but it had been more than an open-hand slap, and she could already feel the side of her face beginning to swell. Admonitions to stay quiet, shock and grief over what had happened to Lena, and even the accumulated misery of the last few months, which had seen her transition from cheerful princess to terrified werewolf in exile, all gave way to a simple truth of her upbringing: no one was supposed to strike her. She was the youngest daughter of Somilius Deyn III, and any man who had the temerity to do what this Sergeant had just done would lose only his hand if he were lucky. The last person who had been allowed to strike her was a nanny who had spanked her at the age of four, and that had been for splashing her mother's paints across a priceless Nythelian tapestry.

"How dare you -- !" Rage trembled in her mouth and if she'd had her dagger she supposed she would have jammed it into the bastard's throat.

Cayle struck her again, now on the other side of her face, and this time she did stumble, catching herself on the chintz chair behind her and sparing herself a nasty fall. "I've no time for stupid jokes, whore," the Sergeant snarled.

Most of the Lioness girls looked down at the floor (Selene stared at the Sergeant with such unrestrained hatred that if looks could kill he would have left in pieces). They knew Ammas and Barthim both would be furious with this, nor were they happy themselves about Cayle doing such a thing to someone they had agreed to protect. But Barthim wasn't here, and Ammas wasn't here, and this sort of thing had happened with some frequency before the two of them had come together to make this the safest brothel in Munazyr. An average customer they could deal with themselves: there was not one girl in the parlor besides Carala herself who didn't have a stiletto or a razor secreted somewhere on her person. A city guardsman, though, had always been a different matter before Barthim took over and before Ammas hung out his shingle next door. There were a few girls, like Selene, old enough to remember what those days had been like. The younger ones, it seemed, would learn.

Or perhaps not. As Cayle raised his hand again, a sneer wreathing his face, Carala felt something hot and ferocious stir inside her. A wolf, rousing from its slumber. A wolf who did not at all care to be struck, not by a worthless bully such as this. Baring her teeth she glowered up at him, something amber flashing in her hazel eyes, something that made him pause in mid-strike.