"Still not sleeping well, Lord Prefect?"

"What do you want, Andreth?"

"Don't take that tone with me, milord. There will come a time very soon when the Throne turns its eyes to what is happening in your city, and you want my protection when it does."

"I never asked for -- "

"You will want it nonetheless."

Oraldus sighed. Paison could almost see him clutching his head in his hands.

"We must speak about some visitors to Gallowsport. They will come soon, perhaps as soon as this week. You need to know about them, but you must leave them to us. Not let your guardsmen touch so much as a hair on their heads."

"What is this? Who are these visitors?" There was an edge in the Prefect's voice that heartened Paison for a moment. Perhaps he would not brook such an obvious affront to his authority.

"Most of them are not worth mentioning. Two of them have been here before. One of the Gallis boys out of Marhollow. His servant. They may come here again. Admit them if you like, but say nothing of our arrangements."

"I will admit or not admit whom I like, Andreth -- "

"I don't care if you admit them or bar them or let them fuck your wife. What I care about is your silence. Am I understood?"

A silence, which Paison supposed accompanied a nod.

"They are not the problem. The problem is with whom they serve. They will come with a young dark haired woman and a man who may be in black robes. The man looks like a cursewright. The man is a cursewright -- the son of Senrich Mourthia, in fact."

"That -- there are no cursewrights left -- this is madness you speak, Andreth -- "

"It is no madness. Listen to me, Oraldus. This man, this Mourthia, is from Munazyr. He has been hiding there for years, and now he returns to the Emperor's domain. You must not touch him. If you value your position, let him be. Despite what you may think, Somilius Deyn will be most displeased if you harm him. Let my people do what is necessary."

"If the Emperor finds out I've let a cursewright practice in Gallowsport -- great gods, Senrich Mourthia's son? I'll be thrown into the harbor a piece at a time."

"He is not coming to practice here. He is certainly not coming here openly, but you know his kind -- he will have difficulty hiding what he is. It's not you who draws him here, or anything your city might offer him, or even homesickness. He comes for us."

Paison didn't hear what the Prefect muttered in response, but whatever it was it made Andreth laugh uproariously.

"Oh, don't worry about that. Your concern for my safety is very touching, Oraldus. Perhaps he has had his little victories against a few of us. Against all of the true Swiftfoot he stands no chance whatsoever. And he knows it. But it is whom he serves that truly concerns both me and you. For when the Emperor learns that, he will no more want him harmed than he would his own consort."

A long pause, during which Paison fancied he could hear his own heart thudding against his narrow chest. Andreth continued in a lower voice. Paison strained to hear it.

"You may hear certain rumors. Rumors that the dark haired woman in Mourthia's company bears a striking resemblance to the missing Princess Carala. You must ignore those rumors, and if they grow too loud, you must do what you can to suppress them. No word she is in Gallowsport must reach the Chalcedony Palace."

"Princess Carala?" The horror in the Prefect's voice perfectly mirrored what Paison felt himself. "Why in the gods' names would she come here?"

"That is my concern, not yours. Let them have the run of the city. The Swiftfoot will dispose of Mourthia and his friends, and deliver the Princess Carala to her true home. Stay out of our way and soothe whatever worries you hear from Talinara, and we will make sure no further harm comes to you."

"Andreth -- Andreth -- you are asking too much! I've heard from Varallo Thray himself three separate times about the Princess, not to mention the Swiftfoot men they already carted off -- "

Andreth laughed. "Those were not true Swiftfoot."

"If Carala comes here, I won't be able to keep it quiet. Thray is talking about coming here himself -- "

"He won't. He knows better."

"Someone will, sooner or later! Those soldiers from Fort Shale are already here!"

"They'll be dealt with in time. You've done well with them."

"Andreth -- how am I supposed -- "

"Lord Prefect," Andreth said with a dry chuckle, "you should bear in mind that fever could strike your wife as easily as it struck your sons, and to the very same end. She's not too old to give you one more child, I think. Why risk her health?"

Silence rung out from the study. Paison Meer felt his stomach sink somewhere down to his ankles.

"Please," wept the Prefect, his voice as quavery and puling as a beaten child's. "Please don't hurt her. I'll do as you say, Andreth -- just -- just -- please -- "

"Good. When all is said and done and there is a new occupant of the Malachite Throne, you will be well-rewarded. There is only one problem I see with your assistance, Lord Prefect."

"What is it?"

When Andreth spoke again, his voice was uncomfortably close. "Your servants are too curious for their own good."

Before Paison could react, the study doors flew open. Andreth stood framed between them, grinning fiendishly. Paison turned to flee, but Andreth was far too quick for his old legs. A rough hand, thick and twisted almost like a paw, gripped his shoulder and spun him around. Paison raised a hand to strike some sort of blow, but before he could the sneering face before him became a nightmare of fangs, gray fur, and maddened golden eyes, wolfish eyes. Paison didn't even have time to scream before his throat was torn out and Andreth-the-wolf fed to his heart's content.

*