David hurried out of the dining room as soon as Lady Ariana had the dessert course lifted. He wanted to talk to Greg about the next steps, and he very much did not want to talk to George Louis.

He fully expected the duke to pay him a visit, but the man never showed up. Only one of the majors from the palace garrison dropped by with an aide, to figure out the best way to pay the werewolf soldiers.

Which meant that David and Major Bourne sat down over a cup of tea. They ended up discussing the best way to get David as much training and command experience as possible before he might have to do it in battle, while Greg and the quartermaster figured out the pay. The quartermaster was jumpy around Greg, but didn’t outright refuse to work with a werewolf. At least not while David and his commanding officer were in the room.

“Perhaps we might go down to the garrison?” David asked once the cups were empty. “I don’t want to steal your time, Major, perhaps someone else could show me around?”

Mostly he wanted to know if Greg would be able to continue the work without him in the room, but the officer promptly assured him that he’d be happy to introduce David around the officer’s mess. And perhaps they could have a go at the training courts afterwards?

The older man winked at David, and loudly complained how he wasn’t as young as he used to be but still could hold his own against all the “young hands.” He clapped David on the shoulder, and added: “I’ll be excited to test myself against you, Lord Feleke.”

Greg grinned and waved after him.

There were more officers hanging out at the mess than David had expected—not that he could fault them. It was a very nice place, a lot like an upscale club in the city. Dark wood panelling lined the walls, and modern gas lamps kept it from looking dreary. Asides from the tables and high-backed chairs, there was also a lounge for smoking and reading with comfortable couches and chairs. A couple of recruits were serving drinks to their officers, who didn’t look all that much like “young hands.”

Though perhaps those officers who fell under that moniker were too busy to be smoking and day-drinking.

David thought he did a decent job at smiling and shaking hands with all the aristocrats he was introduced to. There were only one lieutenant, and a couple of captains. Everyone else was a major or even higher rank, and subsequently, of high nobility. As he was being led around, David noticed three generals walk in.

Major Bourne had him nicely boxed in between another major and a captain, and plied with some alcohol, before the generals sat down at the next seating group.

It was clear the whole room was listening as the major asked: “So how many of our soldiers are to become werewolves? Did General Clermont give a number? Set a quota? Or will we stick to the volunteers for now?”

David put down his glass. “What—I’m sorry—we have volunteers? Amongst the soldiers?”

David had known, of course, that some people with diseases that left even the healers at their wits’ ends were sometimes volunteering for the bite. But soldiers? Young and healthy men, shouldn’t they be?

“There’s a rumour,” Major Bourne said, “that a man might regain a lost limb if a werewolf bites them. Some of the wounded who survived the battles at Port Neaf are asking about it. Is that rumour false?”

“Not—not entirely,” David said slowly. “The result will depend on a lot of factors though.”

“Like what?” one of the generals asked, leaning over the back of the couch.

David opened his mouth, closed it again, and tried to remember what exactly the professors had written about the issue.

“Well, did the doctors burn out the wound? Fire causes injuries the curse won’t heal. Likewise, a healer’s magic will get in the way, and if the Rot set in, again, even the werewolf healing falters. Certain alchemies might similarly affect the outcome. Ironically, the cheapest surgeons are the ones most likely to release a patient who qualifies to become a werewolf.”

The officers looked at each other. Major Bourne grimaced, while others chuckled darkly. “Most soldiers then,” Bourne said. “Thank the fucking flame that the bastards stole so many of our healers away.”

“Might be worth narrowing the healers’ down further in who they treat,” one of the captains said. “Keep our options open.”

So the invalids of the war sometimes volunteered themselves. David shuddered. The men wouldn’t be at the brink of death by the time they could present themselves at the University of Deva to be considered. And anyone who wasn’t about to die from their illness would be turned away, as per the rules Bram had helped set.

David played with the glass in front of him. It had been supposed to be a precaution, to stop people from rushing into the coin toss. But he liked the idea of more volunteers. There was a limited number of non-violent criminals who got sentenced to death, and anyways, surely, a man who had volunteered to fight the Empire once would be more loyal than a man charged with treason?

“If at all possible, ask the soldiers,” David said. “Ideally before they even go into battle.”

There was a chuckle, and then a lot of incredulous looks once the officers realised that David was serious. “This is the army, Lord Feleke. Not a democracy.”

“Yes, general,” David said. “But I ask you to keep in mind that by subjecting them to the curse, you are also arming these men. No gun or pistol in our arsenal that you could hand a soldier is as dangerous as the power of a werewolf. I would not want to produce a bunch of disgruntled veterans who feel they have nothing left to lose.”

They did not have enough hunters to deal with another whole army of werewolves. They didn’t have enough hunters to deal with the ones they already had, if it ever came down to it. But he wasn’t going to admit that, not even here.

“Surely, that’s an exaggeration,” the general said. “A gun will kill a man just as dead as any werewolf.”

“Yes, and that’s all a gun can do, general.” David sighed. “A gun cannot create twenty more guns within a day. A gun does not make its wielder immortal to all but silver, magic, and fire.”

A gun’s power does not grow with every full moon, where the words he didn’t say. If these officers didn’t know, he wasn’t going to tell them without talking to Clermont first.

“I see your point,” a different general said. “But that doesn’t answer the original question: How many werewolves does Clermont want?”

“He did not name a number yet,” David said. “When we discussed the issue, he only spoke of the werewolves we already have. I was also given to understand the army had reservations against deploying them at all?”

The officers exchanged a glance. “Truthfully,” the same general went on, “many of our officers worried that we were to pick men for what you called the coin toss. It’s one thing to order a man to battle. It’s another thing entirely to let Lady Luck sort them out directly. I know it’s bothered our lieutenants greatly.”

Given how quickly they had sat him down to discuss the issue, David guessed it hadn’t just bothered the lieutenants. Not that he didn’t understand the concern.

“If the matter comes up again,” David said slowly, “I’m going to advise General Clermont against picking active soldiers to turn into werewolves. For the same reason as I just gave. I will, however, see if we can make it easier for war invalids to volunteer.”

Even if it meant finding yet another place to house them for the first five months. Putting volunteer soldiers up like criminals, that wasn’t right, was it?

He needed the army’s support if he wanted to ensure George Louis didn’t screw them over. It seemed to work, too. He felt the mood shift in the room at this promise.

“Perhaps it’s time we visited the gymnasium next?” Major Bourne asked.

David hoped that that was a peace offer. He couldn't be entirely sure—the officers certainly didn’t pull their punches, neither on the training grounds nor the shooting range. They seemed rather surprised that David knew his way around a pistol, too, even if he wasn’t quite as comfortable with it as he was with the crossbow. Rifles, he was even less familiar with.

In a way, that seemed to further endear him to the officer corps. He had his talents, and they were useful, but he wasn’t the “hero” the newspapers made him out to be, come to upstage them all.

There was, however, one more pressing question they had: “What rank will you enter the army at?”

“I have no idea,” David said honestly when the matter came up.

“You didn’t even ask when General Clermont drafted you?”

David wondered if there was a polite way of telling them that he didn’t give a damn about his future rank. Probably not.

“As far as I know, it hasn’t even been decided yet whether the werewolves will form a new regiment, join an existing one, or fight as irregulars?” he said. “I figured it would also depend on the number of werewolves I’m to command. Once we have made that decision, the rest will surely follow?”

Bourne patted him on the shoulder. “We’ll see,” he said. “We’ll see.”

David just nodded along as the officers discussed whether he should start as a captain or an even higher rank. They didn’t even entertain the idea that he’d begin as a lieutenant. It scared him a little, the rank and responsibility they wanted to add to the pile he already had. Turning it into a command position made it all more tangible, quantifiable.

He really needed help.

More help.

***

By the time David got home, everyone was waiting for him. Imani sat on the couch, hugging little Hewan to her chest. Greg was right next to her with his other daughter. Bram had taken his favourite armchair, and Nathan and Andrew filled the others. Lane leaned against Morgulon’s flank, down on the floor.

Every single one of them looked up to stare at him when David walked into the drawing room. Nathan glared, Greg and Andrew looked resigned, and Imani and Bram worried. Only Lane grinned at him and asked: “Do you already tire of me so much, fiance mine, that you have to run away to do battle?”

David paused and blinked. “Right,” he said, and managed a smile, too. “It’s the constant nagging.”

“This is hardly a laughing matter,” Imani chastised them, but Lane was unbothered.

“Seems like our only alternative is to cry about it,” she pointed out. “I doubt David agreed to this just because he’s so eager to fight the Valoise.”

“Not just,” David agreed.

“No, you also can’t wait to get out of the office,” Nathan griped.

“Oh, shut up,” David sighed. “You’re not taking over, don’t worry.”

“No? Who is, then? Greg?”

“Desmarais voted for Lane,” David shrugged. “I don’t doubt the more conservative nobles would prefer father, though.”

He looked at Bram, who rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “No, I think Lady deLande would be a better fit,” he said. “If for no other reason than to shock the conservatives. If you are willing?”

Lane absent-mindedly ran a hand through the thick mane on Morgulon’s neck. “I—sure, I can do that,” she said. “Especially if Desmarais is going to back me.”

“So you’re going to do what, father? Simply continue staying home?” Nathan asked bluntly.

Bram shook his head slowly. “No, I’ll admit I’ve been doing that for long enough.” He sighed. “I was thinking I would follow your example, actually, Nathan.”

Now it was Bram’s turn getting stared at, though, David noted, not by Andrew, Greg and Imani.

“You are going to take apprentices?” Nathan asked, sounding as doubtful as David felt. “And take them hunting, too?”

Their father looked straight at Nathan. A few years ago, there would have been a reckoning at Nathan’s tone of voice. Today, Bram just nodded. He turned to David, too. “I fully intend to take them into the field, yes. And if the need should arise again, hunt and kill the werewolf responsible.”

Nathan opened his mouth, but then apparently thought better of it. “Right then,” he said after a few seconds.

David did wonder where that change of heart had come from, but instead he asked: “Do you have anyone in mind, father?”

“Possibly. After word got out about Nathan’s plans, I was approached by Lord Mire, who is concerned about the company his youngest son is keeping and seems to think that fresh air would do him good. I have not yet spoken to the young man in question, so we’ll have to see.”

It was a start, David supposed. He tried to recall Lord Mire’s youngest, but drew a blank. Not that it really mattered. At least their father would be helping.

More importantly, Nathan did not only know the kid in question, he also had a couple of suggestions of his own, which turned the conversation away from David.