Casimir was lost. He knew the alleys of the poorer areas of Munazyr well enough, but even Adder's Hill couldn't compare with the maze of streets and narrow, shadowed byways that lurked between Gallowsport's main thoroughfares. Too sly for his own good, he had darted away from Rowancroft Street to try and put some distance between himself and whatever wolves might follow (or whatever wolves were waiting for him out here, he thought in a half-panic), but he had outsmarted himself. At some point he had lost track of the alleys he had traversed and realized he wasn't even sure what direction he was facing.

If he could see the Grand Curia or Hangman's Harbor, he'd at least know which way Ammas's house stood, but the leering buildings on either side of him obstructed his view completely. Making matters worse was the lack of street lanterns, torches, or even wandering linkboys. Only the occasional gleam of a lamp in a shabby tavern window gave him any light at all.

Shivering, his skymetal blade clutched tightly against his chest, Casimir huddled in a doorway across from one of these taverns. Beyond the smeared glass a man was unconscious at a battered table, one hand loosely curled around an empty wine bottle. He considered slipping into the tavern and asking the barman for help, but he knew what Ammas would say about exposing these people to the danger of the wolves.

The temptation was a short-lived one; Casimir had spent too much of his early life at the Prideful Lioness to believe in the illusion that adults were reliable help. Likely the barman or a serving girl would chase him out with a broom and he would accomplish nothing other than making them a new target. Steeling himself, he slipped out of the doorway and into the alley, deciding he would hold course in one direction as best he could until he saw one of the landmarks again.

Before he had gotten twenty paces something thudded to the ground in front of him. Casimir shrank back, brandishing the dagger. A dark figure rose from the pool of shadows before him, a thin and spare man with a sharp face and a cruel smile. His eyes gleamed a sickly green, throwing back the dim light of the alley in icy points. They were not the eyes of any human Casimir had ever seen.

"The cursewright's boy," this man said in a soft, sleek voice, advancing on Casimir. A thick stink of the wolf went before him, and before Casimir's eyes the man's fingernails began to thicken into black, curving talons. A cry escaped Casimir's throat -- not from fear, but because he was reminded of what was happening to Carala when Barthim ordered him to flee. He wondered if she were able to fight it off, or if Andreth had completely driven away the spirit of the woman he had come to care for over the last few weeks.

"No need to fear us, cursewright's boy. You're brave and smart and a perfect fit. Just a little bite -- it won't even hurt." The man sank down, moving on all fours, his teeth lengthening, his tongue lathing over his chin. Casimir shuddered, thinking of the worst of the Lioness patrons, the ones Barthim had banned for life. Still backing away he raised the skymetal blade over his head.

"That won't do you any good," the man-turning-wolf sneered. "You're no cursewright, boy. Stop playing at it. Just give me your wrist. I can be gentle as you please." With a somehow loathsome grace the man extended his hand, the flesh mottled with gray wolfhide and matted with coarse fur.

Casimir lashed out -- not lunging, not overextending, just as he had practiced with Denisius. The blade found its mark, drawing blood from the offered hand, slicing the index finger down to the bone. The man jerked his hand back, hissing, his eyes furious.

"All right. If that's how you want it, boy. Die with your master."

Ever since he had laid out Ammas's robes and equipment as an apprentice was supposed to do, Casimir had known this whole expedition might well end in the death of everyone involved. Carala's fear had been clear to him; he had no doubt she knew how many scores of wolves must be in Gallowsport. He had seen it in Ammas's fear; in Denisius's desperate charge outside Vilais; in Barthim's solemn prayers in Senrich Mourthia's courtroom. For the most part he thought he understood it. But now that he was actually facing it, he realized how much he wished he could see Ammas one more time, and Barthim, and all of them. Still, he was a cursewright's apprentice and he was determined to go down fighting. So with as fierce an expression as he could muster, he raised the skymetal blade and prepared to inflict as much pain on this wolf as he could before the end.

They moved in a predatory dance, Casimir backing away, sometimes slashing warningly with the blade but never again quite striking home. The wolf advanced, his body shifting and rippling as the beast emerged. His clothing was loose enough that he did not need to shed it, but as he prowled closer his breeches slipped to the ground, his tail swaying over his haunches. The feral stink of it seemed to grow tenfold as its lips peeled back along its snout, showing glistening fangs. Every instinct Casimir possessed told him to turn and run, run as fast as he could, but he knew he mustn't do that at all costs. The second his back was turned the wolf would leap, and that would be the end.

When the wolf before him was knocked to the ground by a streaking bolt of solid black, Casimir was sure he was seeing things: a desperate hallucination of a rescue he had no reason to expect.

When the sleek, midnight-hued shape dove its muzzle into the man's neck and tore it open, killing him instantly, Casimir understood who it was.

The she-wolf padded lightly off the fallen half-changed wolf, prowling toward Casimir on all fours, her amber eyes hypnotic. Blood dripped from her muzzle but there seemed nothing threatening in those eyes. Or maybe that was only what Casimir hoped -- maybe she had been sent to bite him, make him into her cub, just as Syerre had promised. His heart pounded furiously, but he lowered the dagger.

"Your name is Carala Deyn," he whispered. His voice trembled so badly he sounded half his age, but he refused to look away from her eyes.

The she-wolf nodded, a soft sound in her throat -- not a growl or a whimper, nor an attempt at speech, but something gentle and affectionate.

Casimir extended his free hand, shaking from head to toe, wondering what Ammas would do. Barthim wasn't the only one who had guessed that Ammas thought of her as more than a client, and Casimir might have realized it far sooner. But that didn't mean she was safe, or that her affection for Ammas also extended to his friends. Yet it was Casimir's name that spurred her to slit Syerre's throat, and that was something the boy had not forgotten.

Lightly Carala-the-wolf sniffed at his hand, turning her amber eyes up to him. She made no move to bite or claw at him, crouching on her haunches, glancing back over her shoulder. Casimir understood: there were many wolves in these streets, and they'd best not dally.

"Do you know the way to Ammas's house, Carala?"

Carala-the-wolf nodded, rising up to her feet, sniffing the air. Lighty she padded forward, waiting for Casimir to catch up before moving again. Keeping his dagger at the ready, Casimir ran to keep up with her, the two of them moving side-by-side through Gallowsport's darkened streets until they arrived at the gate to Mourthia House. If any wolf watched them, they made no move to strike, perhaps astonished by the sight of their wolf princess protecting the wretched cursewright's apprentice.

*