It shouldn’t have mattered much. But it did. David bowed to the duke and then addressed the audience himself, sword still in hand: “If anyone else wants to tarnish my name – I’m just warmed up!”

There were no takers, luckily. Only George Louis stepped next to him. “You always have to have the last word, don’t you?”

David didn’t look at him. He just rolled his shoulders stiffly, glancing one last time around the arena, before finally sheathing his blade.

“I told you not to kill him,” the duke went on when David didn’t say anything.

“I tried not to. If the healer is half-competent, he should be fine. Given a month or two.”

“Whatever.” George Louis waved his answer away. “Quit grandstanding and have a seat so the healer can look at you as well.”

“Don’t need one. Maybe a couple of stitches.”

The duke already had a piece of fabric in hand to carefully dab at the wound at David’s face. “If that leaves a scar I shall be most cross,” he said softly.

“I thought my rugged charm was what made me attractive to you.”

“One can have too much of a good thing.”

“Yeah, well, never expected you of all people to say that.”

David clamped his teeth together and turned abruptly away to walk over to where a second healer, or maybe a doctor, was hovering. He had clearly lost more blood than he had realized if he was giving George Louis openings like that.

“Please, my lord, sit down,” the man said. “I am no healer,” he added. “But your injuries should not call for magic, I’m sure.”

David just sat and let the doctor take care of the cut on his face. As soon as he did, Marquess Picot showed up, like a bad penny.

“That was most impressive,” the older man claimed. “I trust you will be all right?”

“I thought you supported deVale,” David grumbled. He was thoroughly sick of these bloody palace games.

“Quite the contrary, you just won me a fair bit of gold. Would you like a share?”

“You – bet on me.”

“Why, of course, I did! Admittedly, I was one of the few people who placed a decent sum on you. Most people thought you would lose. The odds were five to one against you. But I heard what the soldiers said after Oldstone Castle about you. And deVale, well, he is a very fine duellist. One of the best around here. But he never fought for his life before.”

A heavy hand landed on David’s shoulder. “If deVale is considered the best fighter around here, then only Mithras can save us.”

“Lord Clermont,” Picot said stiffly.

Clermont ignored the marquess. “You shouldn’t have given him so many openings,” he admonished David. “You’re still being too nice. You could have saved yourself that slash to your ribs at the very least if you had just done away with the idiot.”

“I was under orders not to kill him if at all possible.”

Clermont sniffed. “He was the one who started this, wasn’t he? Well, count or not, at least this should teach him not to insult his betters with made-up charges.”

David really wished he had any idea what was going on here. He got the distinct impression that Clermont wasn’t really talking to him but he couldn’t look around, either, not while the doctor was busy stitching up the cut on his face. The man had applied a paste that effectively numbed the pain, but David didn’t want to mess up his work.

He saw George Louis standing back a little, surrounded by other nobles, probably already busy milking every advantage he could get out of David’s victory. Some strangers were walking up to congratulate David, too. Lady Pettau, luckily, didn’t come near him again. However, Lady de Burg was sauntering over, an older man at her side.

“Lord Feleke,” the lady said with a curtsey. “May I introduce you to my father, the Marquess of Southshire.”

“It’s an honour,” David replied. “I hope you’ll pardon me for the informality of not getting up.”

“Of course,” the marquess replied. He couldn’t be much older than his mid-forties, fifty at the outmost. Fit, a real blade at his side, not a dress sword. His clothes were a lot less elaborate than for example Picot’s. “Uncle Clermont seems to hold you in a rather high regard. Perhaps, once your injuries have healed, you’ll agree to a friendly match?”

David had a really hard time not whipping his head around to the general who was still standing next to his shoulder. “It’ll be my pleasure,” he said.

Uncle. Huh. He hadn’t seen that one coming. He should probably brush up on his genealogy.

“There’s also a rumour that we have you to thank for the promotion of Lord d’Aubigny to Lord of the Admiralty.”

“Duke Stuard appointed him,” David hedged.

“Yet it was a pleasant surprise to hear that the duke’s new right-hand man would not insist on a northerner for all the new positions.”

“It’s all Loegrion to me,” David replied. He had no idea if that was the right thing to say. He really just wanted to bury his face in his hands, or even better, get up and walk out of here.

All he had wanted was one quiet afternoon with his sword, was that really too much to ask for?

“Perhaps, once this war is over you’ll visit Southshire,” the marquess said. “I’ll leave you in the doctor’s capable hands now.”

David looked after him and Clermont. He was actually relieved when George Louis took the place at his shoulder. Right until the doctor made him take off his shirt so he could fix up the long cut over his ribs – if they had been using greatswords, that hit would have put David in serious trouble – and only then turned to the graze on his arm.

Hopefully, the people still milling about would interpret the way George Louis was ogling his naked chest as concern for his “right-hand man”.

David’s head shot up when a sickly sweet smell rolled through the arena. The healer at deVale’s side cursed. There was a hint of panic in his voice. People backed away quickly from where the count lay on his back: Something was moving in the puddle of blood that had formed around him.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” David muttered, and struggled to his feet. “Salt! Why wasn’t that ground salted!” he yelled.

“Where’re the werewolves when you need them,” he added to himself, drawing his blade again.

It wasn’t too bad, luckily. The magic and the blood together had only managed to raise a small column of the sand from the ground to about a foot of height, and it looked like the forming creature had issues holding itself together. Probably because the ground did get treated with alchemy regularly.

David dispersed the sand with his blade, breathing flatly against the stink that was starting to fill the arena. The column reformed quickly, maybe a little bit smaller than before. It should be enough to just spread the blood further out, but he didn’t fancy standing here for the next hour or two, stirring sand.

“Gentlemen, countenance,” David called. He managed to control his voice, hide his annoyance at the useless panic all around, project confidence. “Duke George Louis, if you’re carrying your lighter, now would be a good time to bring it out. You there, Lord Carter, wrap some linen around the tip of deVale’s sword, set it on fire, hand it over.”

Lord Carter very slowly, very gingerly, stepped closer.

“Any sword will do,” David added when he realized that the other lord was too scared of the tiny, powerless Rot-creature to get deVale’s abandoned blade. “How about yours?”

Carter only now seemed to remember the dress sword at his side.

David scattered the sand again with his own blade. He glanced up to the ceiling and the walls, but the gas lamps lighting the room wouldn’t help them much. They either needed a torch, a werewolf, or some decent alchemy.

Five frozen hells, he should have insisted on taking Pierre’s pack to Deva right away.

Finally, a makeshift torch burned, but Carter wouldn’t come closer than three yards. David spread out the tiny creature again and then walked over, grabbing the burning blade before the linen fell to ash. He only had to hit the tumbling Rot-dwarf once. The flame flared, guttered, and hissed, then the sand stopped moving.

“Well, I am so done with today,” David muttered. He kicked the small heap of sand, just for good measure, then turned around to hand Carter his sword back. People stared at him as he grabbed his clothes, shrugged into his jacket, gave a small, mocking bow, and walked out.

He was halfway to the nearest exit, when one of the palace runners caught up with him, yelling: “Lord Feleke! Lord Feleke!”

“No,” David growled.

“Lord Feleke, Mr. Grooch sends me. You have to come to your office right away!”

“No,” David repeated. But he couldn’t stop himself from asking: “Why?”

“Mr. Grooch didn’t say, only that it’s important! He didn’t look well!”

“He didn’t look well?”

The boy nodded excitedly. “Like he was sick. Or maybe he’s been in a fight!”

David froze. “Did you tell anyone else?”

“No, I came to find you first.”

He had no idea if that was true, but David pulled out three silver coins anyway. “Not a word to anyone,” he told the boy.

The door to his office was locked when David got there. He closed it quickly behind himself. He could see right away why Grooch had wanted him: The room had clearly been searched from top to bottom. Grooch’s carefully filed papers had been pulled from their shelves and scattered all over, the desk drawers had been ripped out of the hinges and their contents poured over the top. At least one ink jar had shattered in the midst of it all, and David’s comfortable chair had been turned over.

Grooch sat on the visitor’s chair, limply, as if he had pulled himself into the seat with the last of his strength. His face was pallid, there was cold sweat on his face, and his only ever ink-stained robes were dusty. He was dabbing at the back of his head with a blood-stained handkerchief.

David surveyed the scene a moment longer, and finally said: “I don’t suppose you saw who did this.”

“Lord Feleke!”

For a second, Grooch struggled to sit straight, possibly even stand, then his jaw dropped. “Lord Feleke, you were attacked as well?”

“In a manner of speaking,” David replied. “Lord deVale claimed I had cheated in the race for Lady deLande’s favour. He challenged me to a duel.”

Grooch almost dropped the handkerchief. “And you lost? Oh, that will be so much trouble!”

“Excuse me? I did not lose,” David growled.

Grooch stared at him some more. Finally, he seemed to pale even further, and asked: “Is Count deVale – is he – dead?”

“Not if the healer is half-competent.” David walked over to his desk, glanced at the ink-stained top, and pulled his chair upright. He sat down and rested his boots on the ruined surface. Grooch closed his eyes, either from exhaustion or because he didn’t have to see that.

“Again,” David said. “Did you see who did this?”

Grooch slowly shook his head. “I doubt I would be alive if I had. I was filing some reports. Didn’t hear the door open. Someone must have knocked me out from behind. When I came to, the place looked like this. I felt it was better if you saw the full scope of it, so I decided against cleaning it up. I simply rang up a runner to find you.”

From the way Grooch was swaying in his seat, David doubted that clean-up had really been an option.

“Quite a fine mess,” David muttered, more to himself. “Say, has Count deVale ever killed an opponent in the arena?”

“No, milord. Not that I know of. Why?”

David shrugged. “Just wondering if they wanted me dead or just distracted.”

Grooch considered that. “DeVale is known for his short temper,” he said softly, staring at the blood on his handkerchief. “There was that rather unfortunate incident with Lord Boggs. Had it not been for the intervention of Lord Boggs’ friends, that may well have ended worse than it did. And deVale was unbeaten in the arena for nearly six months last summer. I take it this was a fight to the finish?”

“Yes.”

“And he believed you cheated him out of Countess deLande’s favour?”

“That’s what it sounded like.”

“In that case, I would assume that someone wanted you dead.”

David nodded, looking around the room again. Someone had done their utmost to hide what they were after, but really, there wasn’t all that much valuable information to find in here.

“Fine. We need to get a message out to all the garrisons where werewolves are stationed. They need to be on the lookout for unsanctioned hunters, murderers, fanatics, anyone else who might try to kill a werewolf. Get one of your underlings to do it. I hope that Rust and his group are deep enough within Rot territory to be safe, there’s no way to warn them.”

“What will you be doing, milord?”

“Me? I’m going home.”