Ammas rose laboriously to his knees, mopping his face on the sleeve of his robe. He knew what he must do. It would almost certainly kill him.

With bitter longing he gazed on his father's lifeless form, seeing at last how easily he had been lured here while his companions were at the mercy of the Swiftfoot wolves. But he could repair the error, and if he moved quickly enough he could save the people he had foolishly left in the Curia above. Standing now, he pressed his hand to Senrich's face, closing his eyes, and draped the sheets over his head. Senrich had asked for no prayer, and so he gave him none, trusting that he had found his place across the Ravens' Veil. That didn't stop the ache in his belly when he saw the bloodstains beginning to flower on the sheet where it touched Senrich's chest.

His fingers shook. It took him longer than usual to retrieve the tin of spirit salve. The patterns he smeared on his face were jagged and uneven, not at all the tidy patches of black he normally applied. Neatly he stowed away the salve, placed his hat on his head, and tugged on his mailed gloves. Skymetal blade drawn, Ammas strode out of the room, moving quickly now, ignoring the way the tears on his face ran tracks in the spirit salve. It wouldn't diminish its potency. Quite the opposite.

Abbess Ketheri stood outside the room, staring uneasily toward the far end of the archives. "You heard it too?" she said as Ammas rushed by. "Ammas, where -- " Quickly she glanced into the sickroom and cried aloud, stricken by the unmistakable shape of a shrouded body, blood spreading on that shroud. She clutched Ammas's shoulder, roughly pulling him backward. "What have you done?" she demanded.

Ammas rounded on her, gray eyes blazing from his face, the smeared black paste making him look half-dead himself. Ketheri shrank back.

"I set him free," he snarled. Swiftly he brought the point of his dagger to the Abbess's throat. "If you don't want to join him, then don't delay me any further." Without waiting for a response, he stormed off, kicking aside the fallen piles of books heedlessly, his breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps.

All around him the doors were opening. The Dead did not whisper this time. They merely watched. There was no need to speak to them, formally or informally; no need to address them and plea for their aid. This was a city built on murder, and Ammas's overwhelming grief was like a beacon to them amid a sea of hanged men. They would do as he wished without hesitation.

Abbess Ketheri stared after Ammas, unsure what to do about him. The Chalcedony Palace would have to be informed of Senrich's death. But that could wait. Frowning, wrestling down her own terror of whatever cursewright magic this madman might employ, she followed him, although she prudently kept her distance.

Ammas took no notice of her. His attention was solely focused on the path to the Grand Curia. At the periphery of his vision the black-cloaked shapes of the Dead waited and watched, but for once he wasn't distracted or dismayed by their appearance. Grief burned in him like a coal, but the coal was flaring up into a choking rage. Not only at what had been done to his father, but what had been done to Carala; at the Emperor's blind arrogance in unleashing a plague of wolf's blood upon his own family; at the cruel manipulation of Denisius Gallis, as if both he and the Princess were nothing more than pieces on a gameboard; and most of all at the ritual performed on the unfortunate creature who had become the Emperor's werewolf slave.

The words of Othma Sulivar rang in his head, and now he felt not only ambivalence but disgust: of course he could not bind Carala to him; of course it was a perversion that was rightly driven from his fellowship. As he drew closer to the door of the Overseer's chambers, the sounds of battle and wolf howls echoing through the Curia, he took comfort in the notion that he could at least begin to set things right.

A brutal scene awaited him in the Curia. Blood was spattered across the stately old wooden galleries. The stench of wolf musk and the copper of bloodshed hung heavily in the air. Two of Silenio's men lay dead in the advocates' well, the prince himself on his knees, wavering from side to side, his face even paler than usual with the loss of blood. A dead she-wolf lay before him, and the bite in Silenio's shoulder told Ammas all he needed to know.

Vos was sprawled by the soldiers' side, one hand still gripping his blade, as if he had fallen in their defense. His master Denisius was crouched above him, his blade dripping with wolf blood, his face flushed and his clothing torn. They had arranged a sort of barrier around Silenio and his men, the advocates tables' torn apart and spread in a loose circle. Barthim, tattoos obscured with blood, paced back and forth, wielding a table leg like an enormous club.

Half a dozen wolves lay slain in the well, their shapes ranging from fully human to fully lupine, and every stage in between. Directly across from the High Bench, at the center of the Curia gallery, stood a man in Swiftfoot garb, hands on his hips, feet planted firmly apart as if he were at the prow of a ship. Something had not been kind to this man's appearance: the side of his head was smeared with gore and a newly missing ear made his whole visage gruesomely lopsided. Seeing Carala and Casimir were nowhere to be found, Ammas shrewdly guessed the source of this figure's misery. A hard smile lit his face, his eyes gleaming furiously above the spirit salve.

"You're Andreth. You lead the Swiftfoot."

Silence fell over the vast room, dozens of wolfish eyes turning in Ammas's direction. Denisius, Silenio, and the surviving Sergeant Morell all turned to face Ammas in unison, varying degrees of hope on their faces. Barthim planted his club firmly before him, nodding to Ammas with a brilliant smile.

Andreth looked up from the advocates' well, matching Ammas's fearsome grin. The effect was rather dimmed by the blood still dripping down his face and the ragged hole torn into the side of his head. "So you show your face this time. What will you do, Ammas? Did your father give you any advice? Any sage words on how to deal with the likes of us?"

Around Andreth some of the wolves began to laugh, the sound raising hackles on Denisius's neck. A laugh should not sound so feral, so hungry. There was no fear in that laughter, and why should there be? It was only a matter of time -- and not very much of it -- before the Swiftfoot overwhelmed them, and there was nothing one cursewright could do to stop it.

"Yes," Ammas said softly. "As a matter of fact, he did. I have a message for you, Andreth. For you and for all the Swiftfoot. Tell them for me, would you?"

Andreth sneered, his eyes glittering with malice. To Ammas they looked like Carala's wolfish eyes, but emptied of warmth or compassion. Carelessly the Swiftfoot leader daubed the side of his head with a scrap of cloth, wincing as he did. "A last request, Ammas? I'll oblige you. Tell me this message."

"Tell them the Hangman is abroad tonight," Ammas murmured. And with a single sharp gesture he wrenched open the Veil of Ravens.

Never had the doors opened so easily; so eagerly. Andreth's eyes grew huge, a horrified scream escaping his lips, the sight of the deathly realm beyond the Ravens' Veil obliterating his sanity in a stroke.

The Dead surged forward, howling, shrieking, crying out in their agony and delight, their eyes crimson with rage. Skeletal, wraithlike, bloated, slack and empty, every stage of death could be seen, even skirls of blackish dust that could only be ashes. They reached for Andreth, they caught him in grips of iron, they drew him aloft before the astonished eyes of the Swiftfoot wolves, and they tore him asunder, ripping him limb from limb in a grotesque parody of what had been done to Senrich Mourthia twenty years ago. Whether this was a coincidence or whether the Dead were responding to Ammas's unconscious wishes was a matter the cursewright would leave for the philosophers.

Andreth's screams spiraled higher and shriller until a sheeted form -- even its hands could not be seen; it looked like nothing so much as an animated shroud -- wrapped its arms around Andreth's neck, tearing his head from his body. The bloody fragments cascaded to the gallery floor, strewn across the pews, the Swiftfoot wolves crying aloud and raising their arms to shield themselves as severed limbs and curtains of blood rained down from above.

The Dead waited, hovering, wafting through the wolfish figures, whispering to them, the language as dead as their words. From the wolves' throats uttered low, terrified whimpers. Some of them began scampering away toward the exits. They knew the cursewright had done something terrible to their fellow in Munazyr; none of them imagined anything like this.

Ammas watched them, breathing hard. The Dead turned to him.

"Kill them," he whispered at last. The Dead sighed longingly. "Kill them all. Kill them all. Kill every wolf! KILL EVERY WOLF YOU SEE! CLEANSE THIS CITY OF EVERY WOLF YOU FIND!"

His voice had risen to a bellowing roar. The Dead turned. The Dead fell on the wolves who were not fortunate enough to have escaped the Curia. And the Dead tore them to pieces, fleshless fingers rending, shrunken mouths champing at meat, icy bodies surrounding the fleeing wolves and subjecting them to unspeakable destruction.

Ammas strode forward, his arms raised in a terrible gesture of benediction, his dagger held aloft in one hand. Denisius stammered, "Ammas -- what are you -- they, the wolves -- "

"They will be dealt with, Lord Marhollow." Never had Denisius seen this mad gleam in Ammas's eyes. "There are Madrenites here. Find them and press them. Order them to tend to our wounded. They have much to answer for."

Paying no more heed to Denisius or Barthim, Ammas strode beyond the Curia doors, following the roiling tide of the Dead, the terrified howls of the Swiftfoot wolves as they tried to flee.