On the other side of the bridge they paused at a flower seller, where Carala purchased a bundle of lilies and carnations to lay at Hedrathua Macil's memorial. Denisius had provided her with a healthy amount of silvers and coppers for such small expenditures. She needed Ammas's assistance in not overspending, though she found the little girl peddling the blossoms so charming she happily would have paid double the price.

"That's the idea," Ammas muttered as Carala waved cheerily to the little seller. "The florists in this city are as cutthroat as any merchants' guild." Carala laughed at him, raising the flowers to her nose, delighting in their scent, richer than she could ever remember.

The Isle of Tair impressed both of them, though she hailed from the Imperial capital and Ammas had spent the last five years prowling the richest wards of Munazyr as well as the poorest. The businesses here looked more like art galleries; nearly every house was a storied manse of exquisite design. The dozens of theatres covered every imaginable configuration, from great circular open air arenas to small, semi-private stages which could not have held an audience of more than fifty people. Grandest of all was the vast columned Imperial Opera House, the fountain in its courtyard sporting a white marble statue of Somilius Deyn III, looking both younger and slimmer than either Ammas or Carala could ever remember seeing him. At the Isle of Tair's center stood the elegant gold-tinged white arches and steeples of the Temple of the Graces, the somber music of the Sorrows washing over them as they stepped into the plaza that surrounded it.

When the tones of the chanted Sorrows echoed in his ears, Ammas felt a sudden stab of guilt. He remembered Lena, remembered that those same verses would have been chanted over her body, that by now her bones would be entombed in the Munazyri temple. Would he be speaking so carelessly to Carala of returning with him if Lena had been alive and waiting for him? He stole a sideways glance at Carala and saw something similar on her face. While he couldn't imagine she was thinking of Lena, he hadn't forgotten how she had insisted Othma refer to Lena as a Lioness girl rather than something less respectful. The memory brought the ghost of a smile to his lips.

"I saw him here in Vilais once, when I was very young," Carala said softly, still nosing at the blossoms in her hands. The Temple loomed above them, the crowd milling about the plaza unusually quiet. They paused before a shrine to Saint Unrell, a pious look on his face as he kissed the broken sceptre of the Munaz Emperors. A man lolled on a bench at the edge of the shrine, his eyes bloodshot and watery, a scruff of beard on his cheeks, his fine mourning clothes rumpled and dishevelled, as if he had been wearing them for days. A cloud of stale drink hung about him and he regarded Carala and Ammas with the total neutrality of a drunkard who's not entirely sure of where he is. "Before I came of age, even. I always hoped to come back here, and this time not with my -- " She glanced at Ammas, biting her lip, not wanting to mention her father. "Not surrounded by courtiers."

"For your honeymoon," Ammas said with a wry grin.

"Well, yes." She was blushing now. "I suppose such a thing is not very likely now."

"It is something you and Lord Marhollow will have to discuss, yes."

"If the match is even permitted. Erstan may not want his son to marry someone who suffered my condition."

Ammas laughed. "I will vouch for your health, once you're cured."

Carala shook her head, her eyes turning toward the temple portico, far airier and more lavishly sculpted than the one at the front of Ammas's temple. "I am not sure Erstan will be the problem, really." A sigh escaped her lips. "He was the handsomest man I ever saw, Hedrathua Macil. I do not imagine I was the only young girl to be smitten across the footlights. Some of it must have been stage makeup, of course -- "

"Not as much as you think," slurred a voice from behind them. Ammas and Carala turned about to be confronted with the sight of the drunkard in the rumpled clothes, swaying on his feet now, a half-empty bottle of spirits curled in one hand. "Heddy was beautiful. And wise. And kindhearted. And -- and -- " The man broke down in sobs, clutching his free hand to his face.

Past him, at the shrine, a very young woman in burgundy habits watched them, anxiously worrying her lower lip. She seemed to be debating whether or not she should interrupt this one-sided conversation. The man took a deep breath and composed himself, offering a clumsy bow.

"Begging your pardon, brother and sister. My name is Achros. I performed in half a dozen of Heddy's operas. The new one was coming along so wonderfully. He was playing the role of the Emperor himself. Oh, we couldn't call him that, but that's who he was, we have the padded suit all stitched together, and he was learning the dulcimer -- "

Carala flushed the color of a brick. Ammas bit the insides of his cheeks, trying very hard not to laugh. Both Carala's bewilderment at how to respond to something like this and Achros's grief were clearly genuine, but the notion of a grotesque parody of Somilius Deyn strutting across a Vilais stage struck him as deliciously funny for a number of reasons.

"I am sure it is painful," Carala finally managed. "I am sorry he was so troubled to take his own life, I cannot imagine -- "

"Take his own life?" Achros sneered with fiery indignation, spitting on the ground. "Don't you believe it. Not for a second. He was murdered, murdered by the sheep-fucking bag of guts that squats on the Throne. Word got to him somehow, I know it. Everyone knows it, milady. Heddy throw himself into the Ortien, it's a lie. And now no more opera, no more concertos, no more -- " Achros's face became pinched and drawn and he sat heavily on the ground, weeping again.

Carala shifted from one foot to the other, studying the stricken Achros. Her fingers plucked at the stems of her flowers; amber flickered in her hazel eyes. The insult to her father was tolerable, she supposed; but something about this man's present weakness sharpened something inside her, baited her, made her wonder how quickly the man might run if chased --

"Good Achros," Ammas cut in, firmly taking the flowers from Carala's hand. The strange run of her thoughts ceased, and she stared at the weeping figure, blinking. "Whatever happened to your friend, I think he wouldn't want you ruining yourself like this." Lightly he tugged the bottle from Achros's hand, trading it for Carala's flowers. "Get hold of yourself, and pay tribute to him with these. My lady here meant no offense."

"Er, no, of course not," Carala stammered. Achros regarded the flowers in his hand owlishly, as if he had never seen such a thing before. Slowly he nodded and clambered to his feet, slumping off in the general direction of the Temple.

"Vilais artists," Ammas muttered, mostly to himself. He was about to suggest to Carala they go elsewhere when a small voice cleared its throat. Ammas whirled around only to see the young woman in burgundy, blushing furiously as she tried to get his attention. Upon closer view he saw her robes were trimmed with silver. Dangling from her neck was a white gold emblem of a hearth, the symbol of the Madrenites. "Sister," Ammas said, amiable but wary.

"That was very kind, sir," the Madrenite stammered. Carala smiled a little; the girl was much younger than herself, perhaps only a few years older than Casimir. "I saw you on the Bridge of Saint Wylles and I hoped I might speak with you." The girl hesitated as if afraid. Ammas put on a welcoming smile, though he remained wary. The Madrenites had probably been the least vociferous supporters of the dissolution -- and this girl had certainly been born long after its conclusion -- but they bore no love for cursewrights. "Beg your pardon, sir, but do you come from Talinara?"

Frowning he exchanged a glance with Carala. "Why do you ask?"

"Your dress. One of your brethren is in our temple, badly hurt." Ammas's face grew very white. "We sent a message to Talinara, but that was only a few days ago. I thought, well, he might have already sent such a message before he was injured."

"What do you mean, my brethren?" Ammas said through pursed lips. Carala had curled a hand around his forearm defensively, regarding the girl with coldly predatory eyes.

"Beg your pardon, sir," the girl said, her voice little more than a whisper. If she was an assassin she was an excellent actress, but that was to be expected in this city. "From your dress I thought you a witch-finder. The young man in our temple, his fellows were killed and he may not survive himself. It happened the same night poor Lord Macil jumped into the Ortien, or I suppose more people would be worried about it."

"What happened?" Ammas prodded. "I might be able to help him."

"Well -- I -- ha, I do not really believe it myself, sir, but the Abbess says it's possible, and his injuries support his story, but, well -- "

"Yes?" Ammas said sharply.

"Well, sir, he says he and his fellows were attacked by werewolves."

Ammas stared at her in shocked silence. Carala's hand clenched tightly around his forearm, and he fancied he could smell that woodland scent intensifying. They looked at each other and in her eyes he saw reflected what was already in his mind: trap or not, they could not ignore this.

"You had better take me to him at once, sister." The Madrenite bowed and turned away, leading them from the plaza and toward her own temple. Ammas laid one hand on Carala's shoulder and the other on the hilt of his dagger, wondering what in the name of the gods this could mean.