While the nobles and their servants had gathered in the entry hall, the lowborn Munazyri (and the exiled Mourthia, Ammas thought wryly) had occupied the cellar. Barthim had been fascinated with Senrich's personal courtroom, and it was there Ammas found him, crouched in one of the galleries and deep in prayer to the Hethmar. To see the bouncer so occupied was unsurprising, but also made Ammas a little apprehensive: this was a Hethmar Blade preparing himself for battle. Leaving the man to his meditations, Ammas turned back toward the cells, where he had seen Casimir bustling to and fro. What he found in the cell where he had passed the night with Carala shocked him, and pleased him to no end.

Along the bench, Casimir had laid out all of Ammas's cursewright regalia, along with what supplies and tools he did not carry at all times: his robes folded neatly with his charm-bedecked hat placed atop them; the ebon mail gloves he had worn to treat Denisius beside the robes; over a dozen crystal phials full of potions and unguents neatly arrayed like toy soldiers (or more likely, Ammas thought, chessmen); the extra belt he wore as a sash stretched on the floor, the smaller knives he used for work too delicate for the skymetal blade arranged by size atop it. The boy looked up as Ammas stared from the cell door, a sheepish smile on his face.

"I couldn't find your boots," Casimir said. "I know I'm supposed to polish them."

"I only have the one pair," Ammas said. "Casimir, who told you to do this?"

For Casimir, Ammas knew at once, had performed the squiring obligations his apprenticeship traditionally called for when the master cursewright was summoned to an especially dangerous or momentous duty. Such things were holdovers from the days when the fellowship of cursewrights had been an order of Knights-Vigilant, when there had been such things as knights and militant orders, before the Munaz Emperors and the martial brotherhoods they favored were supplanted by the Deyns. Ammas had never bothered to teach these duties to Casimir, partly because he felt the boy had more important things to learn and partly because in his years of exile he had grown comfortable attending to such mundane activities on his own. Casimir's assistance was of course invaluable -- Ammas would never forget how his quick action had saved Carala's life -- but he felt no particular need for the boy to act as his servant.

"It's in your books," Casimir replied. "I read a lot of them on the way here from Vilais. Did I do everything right? I couldn't find your spirit salve or your twinhooks."

"I always carry those," Ammas said absently. As he saw how anxiously Casimir regarded him, a slow delighted smile lit his features. "Casimir, you've performed with distinction, as always. But one thing remains, if you want to do this correctly." Casimir looked up at him expectantly. Ammas held out one hand, palm up. At first Casimir seemed not to understand what he wanted, but then his eyes brightened. With a smile he drew his own skymetal blade and turned it over to Ammas for inspection.

Ammas held the weapon up to his eyes, scrutinizing it closely -- not merely as a pantomime to humor his apprentice, but to perform a thorough examination of the blade to ensure it was ready for whatever dangers they might encounter tonight. He saw now it was not of so ancient a make as his own, and likely had been among the last to be manufactured before the dissolution: a new blade forged for Othma's grandson, in anticipation of a life that was never to be. He wondered what the Doyenne would think of him now, not only pledged to Carala Deyn but working with her brother, whose crimes against their brethren were downright infamous. Ammas supposed she might have tolerated it upon seeing the bruises Barthim had left all over the Prince's once-handsome face, but even that seemed optimistic.

"You've been treating it properly," Ammas remarked, running a thumb along the telltale marks of sharpening that gleamed at its edge. "When did you get the chance?"

"Er," Casimir stammered. Ammas raised an eyebrow suspiciously, though his knowing grin rather ruined the effect. "I borrowed your whetstone one night. The first night we got to Gallowsport. The books said they need to be treated once a month, and I didn't know how long it had been since -- "

Ammas smiled and turned the blade back over to his apprentice. "It's quite all right, lad. I should have offered it before you had to take it for yourself. Ask me next time, though -- it's possible to damage the blade if you don't move the stone just so. You did well, though. The blade is in perfect condition. It's ready for anything." His smile faded, his face growing serious. "Do you feel ready?"

At first the boy nodded, but something in Ammas's expression told him now was not the time for bravado. "No, Ammas, I don't. I -- we've fought them before, I know, but, well -- "

"This is their home," Ammas said softly. "And we will not surprise them as we have in the past. They know what they're dealing with, and they'll be ready for us."

Glumly, Casimir nodded, toying nervously with his dagger.

Ammas knelt in front of the boy, meeting his gaze, his own apprehension of the night to come a palpable thing between them. "I won't lie to you, Casimir. I don't know how many of these wolves there are, or what they have planned for us, or what our chances are. We have seasoned warriors who know what they're about to face. We have my lore and what I've taught you. Beyond that -- "

"What about Carala?" Casimir broke in.

Ammas frowned. "What about her?"

"Will she fight us, if the wolves ask her to?"

"I don't know," Ammas said slowly, having pondered this himself more than once. With a lurch he thought of what had happened between them in this very cell. "I think it is possible she will stay with us. But there is no way of knowing until it actually comes to pass." Casimir nodded, looking down. "Casimir," Ammas said softly. "I'll say it again. You don't have to come with us."

"Yes I do," he said, his eyes flashing angrily as he looked back up. "You swore a vow to Carala, and Vos swore a vow to Denisius. Didn't I swear a vow to you?"

"It's not worth losing you, Casimir."

The boy shook his head. "I want to be here, Ammas. With you, and Barthim, and Carala. If you don't want me here you'll have to lock me up."

Ammas looked around at the cells and sighed. "I'm not going to do that, Casimir."

"Good."

"You run if I tell you to. I mean it, Casimir. If things get out of control at the Curia, I want you back here. This place is safe from the wolves. The only one that can pass the gate is Carala." Ammas had spent a good portion of the afternoon drawing wards around the grounds that ensured this was true.

When Casimir didn't answer, Ammas's voice grew stern. "Casimir. Tell me you'll run if I order you to."

"I will, Ammas," he said, his lip curled in a stubborn set.

It would have to do. "All right, lad," he said more kindly. "Let me be for a time. I need to prepare myself. Barthim is down the hall, if you'd rather sit with him than our helpful prince."

Casimir's stubborn expression broke into a smile, and with a nod he set out toward the dusty courtroom at the end of the cellar. Ammas turned to his finely arranged gear, smiling softly. As he began to clothe himself in the raiment of his trade, his belly began to roil with nervous energy -- not fear, precisely, though a touch of fear almost always accompanied him when he readied himself for something of this magnitude. The last time he had felt this way was that pleasant spring afternoon on Hawser Street, reading his book of old exorcism prayers and steeling himself to confront the demon that had gripped Lena's father.

He wondered what Lena would think of all this, of him and Casimir and Barthim fighting for an Imperial Princess, putting their heads into the wolves' jaws for her. With a pang he realized he wished she were here to see it, or at least back at the Lioness, waiting for his and Casimir's return, waiting to sit with him on the temple portico and listen to the tale of all that had happened since that night in Munazyr over cups of seretto tea. Lena was gone, but there was still a chance to save Carala. Ammas held onto that as he tugged the black robes over his head.