In the the Inner City, even between the steam that rose from the piles of horse droppings on the road and the acrid smoke that rose from Deva’s first motorised tramway, a fouler stench lingered. As they walked down the slope towards the White Torrent, a gust of wind carried it up from the river and Greg slowed his steps, trying to focus on the spoiled magic. He didn’t sense any though—not Morgulon, just a mile or two away, nor did he have the headache that preceded the Rot. He thought there was the slightest pull towards the east, where Pierre and the others were, but that might have been just because he knew they were that way and expected the draw.

He lengthened his strides to catch up with Gustave, who was busy telling him about the club he had joined at university and didn’t comment on the foul odour riding on the breeze. Maybe it had just been a backed up sewer.

Was something wrong with Fenn? But Morgulon was fine, there was no way the Rot would attack the city.

“I’m sorry for what I said about your friend,” Gustave interrupted his own story.

“Huh?” Greg blinked slowly, then shrugged. “I guess we should have expected people would think something like this.”

“You’re quiet, though.”

“I thought about the river,” Greg explained. “I didn’t think we’d be able to smell it all over the city. I hope—“

He was being stupid, wasn’t he? Deva used to stink before the Rot, all the time. Especially if the wind came from the wrong direction. In a city of this size, it was pretty much unavoidable.

Foolish or not, he clearly wasn’t the only one who thought of the Rot first. They rounded a corner, and the Torrent came into view, and one of the larger bridges. On four lanes, carts and carriages were crossing freely in both directions, but there were guards watching the waters even during the day and wooden barricades stood ready.

“Do they close the bridges at night?” Greg asked.

“Not every night. Only if things get bad.” Gustave slowed. “Maybe tonight. It does smell bad, doesn’t it? What do you think? Maybe we should go back?”

Greg shook his head and gently grabbed his shoulder to push Gustave onwards, pretending that he didn’t notice how his friend flinched at the touch. “It’s fine. Really. There’s nothing short of a Rot-queen that’ll dare climb out of the water with Morgulon in the city.”

“She’s back at your family’s place though, isn’t she? Is she really that powerful? There’s a lot of river going through Deva.”

Greg just grinned.

Gustave mulled that over as they walked down to the river. “If she’s that powerful, why isn’t she at the front, fighting the Valoise for us?”

“Different sort of fighting,” Greg shrugged. “She can’t do much against an army. The Rot on the other hand is mostly magic, and that she can fight.”

Despite the reassurance, Gustave still hesitated at the foot of the bridge, clearly uncomfortable with crossing the street. He tried to keep as much distance from the balustrade as possible—just as all the other pedestrians. Greg didn’t fear the balustrade or the water underneath, but the long pikes with the silver tips and the helmets that the city guards wore made him uncomfortable, too.

After the second time they had to stop because the person coming the other direction was refusing to make way, he grabbed Gustave by the sleeve and pulled him right up to the railing.

“Let’s go,” he grumbled. “We haven’t got all evening.”

“We do,” Gustave mumbled, but didn’t resist when Greg towed him along. They still had to avoid the guards, who grunted at them, but then they were across, and could make their way up the hill towards the university.

Wistfully, Greg stared up to the distinctive clock tower of the grand old building as they walked past. Would Smith’s words ever come true? Would a werewolf ever be able to attend lectures here? And if so, would he ever be free to do so?

Gustave didn’t give him any time to wallow in self-pity, leading the way around the library and then away again from the university, into a side street lined with pubs and clubs on both sides. Groups of students were clogging up the alley. The stink of the sewer didn’t reach here, instead it smelled of beer and tobacco smoke, and even though the sun was just setting, lines of drunken singing waved through the air. Shouts echoed around the corner, and Greg thought he heard the clash of steel on steel.

This was where Greg would have been spending his nights with Gustave if it hadn’t been for—well, everything. He could see himself sitting in front of a pub with Smith, or a group of engineering students, heckling the law students across the street…

But he was just a guest here. An outsider.

Gustave led the way to “his” club, situated on the ground level of a narrow, ancient building. They had to climb down two steps to duck through the slightly crooked front door, and Greg almost hit his head on the low beams of the ceiling. The room was filled with cigar and pipe smoke so thick that it almost drowned out the alcohol fumes. The air was hot and stuffy, yet the amount of silver in the room sent goosebumps down Greg’s arms.

The tab room felt cramped, and not just because of the low ceiling: To one side was the bar, the rest of the room was filled with one long table that formed a U. In order for the servers to get around the room, it had to be so narrow that there was only one bench in the middle. It did feel quite cosy, giving the impression that everyone was sitting together, even in a group of what looked to be about twenty people.

A shout went up when the other guests noticed Gustave, a loud cheer that turned into a jeer. Gustave dragged Greg with himself past all the people who wanted to clap him on the shoulder—or possibly pour a pint of beer down his back, it was hard to tell with some of them.

“Made it across the river after all, have you?” they japed. “Mummy let you go? And who’s this?”

The last question was repeated over and over, until Gustave stopped at the head of the table, in front of an older man. The stranger rose to give Gustave a hug, and then clapped his hands before he repeated: “And who’s our guest?”

“This is the Honourable Gregory Feleke, Dr. Mardis.”

“Of the Feleke Four? You’ve been holding out on us, Gustave! You never mentioned you had such august friends!”

Dr. Mardis thrust out a hand in Greg’s direction. “Which one are you? The Hero of Oldstone Castle, the crazy bastard who went after a Rot queen, or the werewolf?”

He laughed as if that was an excellent joke, and before Greg could answer, he went on: “Mardis is the name, Doctor Iuris Utriusque, it’s an honour either way!”

Greg never got a chance to say anything in response. More people—most of them only a little older than him—crowded in to shake his hand or slap Gustave on the back and complain that he hadn’t been hanging out with them before. Everybody knew the name Feleke, and everyone just assumed that he had to be the fourth brother, the “boring one” whom nobody had heard much about yet.

Andrew wouldn’t mind that, probably, to be known as the Boring One. Greg hoped his brother wouldn’t mind the impersonation, either.

He was given the place of honour right next to Dr. Mardis, Gustave on his other side. Drinks appeared in front of them before Greg could even order. Everybody demanded to hear stories from the “forest front,” and the students laughed at the idea that he could be a werewolf. Everyone knew, after all, that werewolves were strange folks, not really human, even if they looked that way.

For the first time, it bothered him. He felt like a liar, a fraud, even as he told his rapt audience nothing but the truth. Just not the whole truth. And the bit that was missing—well, that was important, wasn't it? He was a werewolf. There was no denying that, no point in running away from it. More importantly, that fact had shaped—had changed—who he was.

Should he tell them? Was it worth the risk? These were strangers, after all, people he was unlikely to meet again in the future. He couldn’t even remember their names.

So he told them stories of the navvies, of the sacrifices the crews had made, the cost of building the railway, until the stink of the sewers washed into the pub through the open door. Some students sneezed, and silence fell once the fits passed.

Dr. Mardis pushed out of his chair. “Smells like a bad night. We better walk with you, see if the bridge is still open.”

“Let’s hope so,” Gustave sighed. “Mother will kill me if I don’t come home.”

Greg grinned, and was surprised when the round of sniggers he had expected didn’t come. Instead, the students filed out quickly, pressing their silver-adorned caps down onto their heads.

Maybe he shouldn’t have told so many stories of things going wrong. There was no danger at all tonight. Just a bad odour.

Hopefully, the guards manning the bridge would know the difference.

The street outside was packed with young men and a handful of women who all hurried to get home. They were sobering up quickly in the cold, stinking night air, still many of them could barely walk straight. There was a lot of yelling and pushing and almost no getting forwards.

“This is madness,” Greg complained. He pressed with his back against the wall to get out of the way of what looked like a whole wrestling team. Broad-shouldered as they were, the guys were pushing through the crowd away from the river.

Greg reached out for Gustave, who looked almost ready to cry. “There’s no Rot,” he yelled over the noise. “It just smells bad!”

He didn’t catch Gustave’s answer.

At a glacial pace, they were pushed out of the alley. On the main street, it was easier to move, and once they made it past the university, the road cleared considerably. The group rounded the complex. They should have been able to see the White Torrent from here. All they saw, however, was the bank of fog that covered the valley.

The students stopped. “No way I’m walking into that,” one of them muttered.

“You ever seen something like that, Greg?” Gustave asked.

“It’s fog. Of course I’ve seen fog before. Especially at Deva.”

Behind him, somebody giggled nervously.

Gustave didn’t move. “You said there’s no danger.”

“It’s fog,” Greg repeated. “It’s not dangerous. It just smells bad.”

“How can you tell the difference?” Dr. Mardis grunted.

Greg looked over his shoulder at the older man. Seriously? He had just spent three hours telling them stories from building the railway.

“You’ve never seen Rot-fog, or you could tell at a glance, too.”

“We’ve had plenty of fog in the last year here in the city.”

“Yeah, sure. There’s fog all the time around the White Torrent. Sometimes it smells bad. That’s just weather, though. Sometimes it stinks to high hell, that doesn’t make it dangerous; it used to do that five years ago, too. If that cloud was caused by the Rot, it wouldn’t be white, for one. We’d barely be able to see it in the dark. More importantly, if there was a Rot-creature around, one powerful enough to cause a fog bank that large, half of you would be puking your guts out right now. Trust me, it’s not an easy thing to miss.”

“And you’d stake your life on that?” Mardis asked.

“My life, too,” Gustave added, quietly.

Greg rolled his eyes. “Yes.”

He took a couple of steps down the hill, and when none of them moved, he added: “I’d be willing to stake my daughters’ lives on it, too.”

“What?” Gustave snapped, and stumbled after him. “Your what now?”

Greg smiled inwardly, ignoring the question. “I’m going home now, if you want to come, Gustave. If you want to explain to your mother tomorrow where you were...”

He walked on, smiling grimly.

“Crazy, the whole family.”

“Course they are, got to be crazy to hunt werewolves.”

“Countess deLande will be in good company, then.”

A pattering of footsteps interrupted the raillery.

“Gustave, don’t...”

Greg grinned wider when his friend caught up with him, holding onto his hat with one hand.

“You’re really certain?”

“I’m really certain.”

“Why does it smell so bad, then?”

“Who knows?” Greg shrugged. “Do you remember the big stink from three years ago, when the eastern main sewer clogged up?”

Gustave slowed down as they neared the fog again, so Greg reached out to pull him along. It did smell bad, even worse than outside. Like spoiled milk, compost, and carrion. Gustave groaned and tried to cover his nose with his scarf.

“Are you really sure this is just normal fog? Because I am feeling a little sick.”

Greg sighed. “If this was the Rot, I’d be struggling to keep my human shape right now,” he replied. “And since I’m not, yes, I’m really sure it’s just a bad smell.”

“Okay. Okay. Have you ever, uh, transformed when you didn’t want to?”

“An elder werewolf could force me,” Greg explained. “It’s nothing you need to worry about, though. I might look different, but unless it’s full moon night, I’m still me.”

He wondered how far their voices carried in the night. Gustave had an endless stock of questions, and he tried to answer him as best as he could. There was nobody else on the street, as far as he could see or hear.

Were people really this scared of a cloud and some bad smell? He’d have expected more from the citizenry of Deva. If David was right, the people of Mannin would be celebrating the night away right now.

At the river, the barricades were up, blocking the road across. The guards with their silver helmets had abandoned the bridge and stood on solid ground behind the barriers, silver-tipped pikes in hand, as if they expected a horde of brutes to charge out of the waters at any moment.

“Well, crap,” Gustave muttered. “Now what?”

Greg didn’t slow down. He tried to project confidence as he approached the small army guarding the perfectly harmless White Torrent. Gustave followed right behind him, still looking nervous. At least he didn’t ask again if Greg was certain that there was no danger.

They made it nearly up to the barriers before they were noticed. Two guards crossed their pikes to barr their way. “Step back, citizens!” they yelled.

“I need to get across the river.”

“Are you mad, Sir? Didn’t you notice the fog?”

“My name is Gregory Feleke. I am not scared of the weather, and my comrade and I really need to cross.”

Two more guards came over, one of them holding a guttering torch, the other one with a sergeant’s stripes on his uniform.

“I have to ask you to step away from the barricades, Sirs” the sergeant said. “I have my orders.”

Greg didn’t budge. “And I have mine. My brother wants me. Gregory Feleke,” he repeated.

The sergeant narrowed his eyes at him. “Follow me,” he ordered. “We’ll see what his Lordship says.”

Greg sighed, but he trusted David to cover for him, so he went without resistance. There was a small watch house at the foot of the bridge. He hoped it had its own telegraph connection—if they sent a messenger for David, it would take forever to get an answer. Imani wouldn’t appreciate being woken that late, either.

The watch-house was cramped, and filled with the sharp smell of silver-polish. An ancient tea-urn stood on a small burner at the wall, right next to a telegraph, manned by an older guard. Another wall was lined with lockers, the rest of the space was taken up by a table and seats for the guards to take their break.

“Any news from the palace?” the sergeant asked as soon as they all were inside.

“No, sarge, no news.”

“All right. In that case, send a message to the other guardhouses: tell them to inform his lordship, should he stop by, that his brother is here and wants to cross the river. Make sure you include which bridge the message is coming from this time.”

“Aye aye, sarge.”

David wasn’t home? He’d just gotten back from Windish; they hadn’t really dragged him out here for a bit of fog, had they?

But of course they had.

Greg and Gustave had barely had time to sit down when the telegraph began to move and a reply came: David was on his way.

Someone really needed to learn to delegate.

The news that David was on his way caused a flurry of activity amongst the guard troop. Boots were shined and helmets given a quick buff. A corporal inspected the results. It seemed like overkill to Greg, but at least the guards forgot their terror of the fog for a moment.

When the clattering of iron-shod hooves on cobblestones became audible in the quiet night, the corporal had the men line up, leaving only a couple on each side of the bridge to watch the waters, while the sergeant stood ready to greet David. Greg wandered over to meet his brother, feeling out of place as the sergeant stood to attention.

Watching his brother take the report in front of the small formation was weird. All the more so because David looked comfortable as the sergeant presented himself formally. Weary, yes, but unruffled at the military protocol. He even answered the snappy salute with one of his own, before nodding at Greg.

“Can I count on you tonight?”

Of course David hadn’t just come down here to pick him up and take him home. “I’m tired,” Greg wanted to say, but swallowed the words. David clearly was tired, too.

“I’m ready,” he said instead.

David smiled briefly, then turned to face the line of guards standing to attention. “At ease,” he ordered.

It was just like after the fight against the Rot-queens, but seeing David in his new role as military commander was still odd. So unlike the David he used to know. Even his clothes were different: none of the grime from the forest in sight, or the comfortable vests David used to wear. Today’s riding coat was a clear reference to the uniform, his boots shined. His posture was military straight, too.

Not that David had ever been a slouch, but he used to hate speaking in front of groups. There was no hint of that now.

“I know it’s a rough and smelly night. And I know there have been concerns raised about the distance to Windish. On the other hand, I also understand that not everyone here is comfortable with letting werewolves enter our fine city, no matter how dire the situation may be.”

Greg did his best not to fidget. The soldiers were staring straight ahead, but it still felt like they were all looking directly at him. The sheer amount of silver all around wasn’t helping to calm his nerves.

“I understand those concerns,” David went on. “Deva’s city guard has done a fine job keeping the citizens safe from rabid werewolves for centuries. You have heard the stories of the veterans, have perhaps lived through attacks yourself. Few of you will ever have encountered a rational, helpful werewolf. So I would like you to meet my brother, one of the werewolves protecting the city tonight.”

Greg didn’t quite manage a smile when he raised his hands in an awkward greeting. Maybe he should have saluted, too, but he probably would have messed that up.

“Greg has been a werewolf for a couple of years now, first working with the railway, then searching the Argentum Formation for others. Recently, he fought in the battle against the Rot-queen at the Savre camp.”

The soldiers did stare at him now, most of all the sergeant. Not in a good way, either. Many of them shifted their grip on their pikes. If David hadn’t been standing right there, Greg would have gotten ready to run.

“He will now be stationed here in Deva,” David went on, as if he hadn’t noticed. “One of two werewolves residing in the city. You will likely run into him from time to time. I trust there will be no problems arising.”

He turned back to the sergeant. “Carry on,” he ordered, as if nothing much had happened just now.

“My Lord,” the man replied with a salute, quite clearly in a state of mild shock. David walked off before he could gather his wits, and Greg hurried after him. Gustave, too.

David collected his horse and approached the barricades to cross the bridge as if there was no way in the world the guards would try to stop them. Greg desperately tried to project the same kind of confidence, but was certain he failed.

“I bet they’re really, really glad to see us go,” Gustave muttered, when the barrier was opened promptly for them.

Greg hushed him. A shudder ran down his spine, and he wasn’t sure if that was the stares or all the silver. He didn’t want to look over his shoulder to see if they were staring.

“You up for doing that again?” David asked. “It’s time to get them used to the thought.”

“You should probably get them used to someone like Morgulon right away,” Greg pointed out. “But all right. Let’s do it.”

“You don’t need me for this, do you?” Gustave asked. “Cause, as interesting as that was, I’d prefer to get home tonight.”

“You’re free to go home at any point,” David replied. “Both of you. We won’t be able to cover all of the postings tonight anyway. It just seemed like a good opportunity, since we’re both here.”

“What were you doing out here, tonight?” Greg asked.

“People are scared,” David shrugged. “We both know that the smell and the fog aren’t connected to the Rot, but I’m supposed to reassure the men.”

“So you’ll stay up all night? Again?”

“I’ll go along the river, yes. I certainly won't say no if you want to come.”

Greg looked at Gustave, who was clearly eager to get home, then at David'd tired face. “Sure, I'm in.”