David killed a marshall of the Grande Armée. And then he destroyed the rest of the Valoisian cavalry.

He did it in front of a village full of witnesses, too. It took less than two days for the news to reach Deva.

There was a lot of confusion about how exactly he did it—magic and werewolves, that was the only bit on which all the refugees from Mirtbrook agreed on. It should have been a reason for celebration.

You’d think it would be a reason for celebration, right?

The palace guards instead eyed Greg with barely disguised fear when he entered the palace. They didn’t try to stop him, but they certainly weren’t happy to see him. Which was wild, given that David and his army had just killed a marshal of the Grande Armée.

And ten thousand of his riders, according to the rumours. Greg had a hard time believing the stories that the refugees carried into the city. Not least because Lord de Vale said that the Valoise hadn’t had ten thousand riders to begin with.

As unfair as it was, it hadn’t earned the werewolves a lot of friends in Deva. On the contrary—the display of power had sowed new fears. Not just about them, but about David’s intentions, too. Greg had a feeling that the main reason why the guards did nothing more than glare at him was Lane’s popularity. It was still rather hard to argue with a woman blessed by Mithras Himself. Especially after that woman had saved so many people.

She smiled at him warmly as he walked into the office, and he gratefully sank into his seat behind his desk. Not that he got the peaceful morning of processing files for the paper money he had been hoping for.

“L-Lord Feleke?”

Greg looked up from the paperwork slowly. He had heard the messenger come in, he’d just expected the message to be for Lane. Or possibly, Grooch, who sometimes received missives from other secretaries. Greg didn’t have a network of his own that would bypass Lane, and neither Mr. Higgins nor Gustave would send mail for him to the office.

“Lord Feleke, message from Duke Stuard.”

Greg almost dropped his quill at that.

“Yes?” he prompted, when nothing else followed.

“His Highness is requesting your presence. Immediately.”

“I—sure. Where?” Greg asked, putting down the quill and quickly reaching for the paper to blot out some excess ink.

“At the throne room, Sir.”

So Greg went, despite the sense of trepidation he felt at these summons. He hadn’t spoken to the duke since Morgulon and Pierre had fought—which added an entirely new strain to the atmosphere in the palace. Not that the humans noticed that. Greg barely noticed himself, but he knew Annabelle and her small pack—or possibly group of handmaidens—complained about it a lot.

When he arrived at the throne room, there were already plenty of people there: craftsmen were busy dismantling the low stone bannister around the old throne. The duke stood to the side. That was remarkable in itself, that he was fit enough to stand for any length of time. There was a man with a sketchbook standing by his side, presenting something.

Stuard was tapping his foot impatiently. As soon as he spotted Greg, he waved him over.

“Lord Feleke, there you are. This is Master Bassun, who will create the new throne. I’d like you to have a look.”

Master Bassun promptly pressed the large sketchbook into Greg’s hand. It showed several elaborate drawings, all of the same chair in different angles. There were some obvious nods to the old throne. The base was still formed by the block of marble—possibly the same block of marble, though this one appeared to have been carved, making it look a little less stocky. The bannister that had used to surround the throne was missing, and the backrest looked more like it belonged to an actual chair. It even had a cushion, and real armrests. Above the cushion—above the head of anyone sitting on it—was the same filigree that the old throne had, still with the tree motif. Half a tree in the first sketch. The other half was a wolf’s face—half of it, again. There was also a version with the full werewolf next to the full tree, which Greg thought looked rather awkward, and one each with the wolf’s head above and below the tree’s crown.

Greg kept his eyes fixed on the pages to stop himself from staring at the duke. He couldn’t imagine him sitting on a throne like that. Nor any of these crests on an official banner—a seal—a Loegrian flag…

“Well?” the duke asked. “What do you think?”

Greg glanced up at him, and finally said: “I am mostly wondering how you’re going to sell this to the rest of Loegrion.”

The artist nodded eagerly behind the duke’s back, giving Greg a relieved grin. Right until Stuard said: “Interesting thing for a werewolf to say. I thought you’d like it.”

“I do like it.” Greg managed not to grimace as the artist took an involuntary step backwards. And then another one. “I just don’t think we’re as popular as we were at the beginning of the war—what with all the unsettled ones loose in the southern Heartlands.”

“Interesting you mention that,” the duke said. “I was hoping to speak to you about that issue, too.” He took the sketchbook out of Greg’s hands, flipped through the image that had half a wolf’s head and half a tree, and pushed it at the artist. “See to it, Master Bassun. The sooner you can get it done, the better.”

Then he waved at Greg to follow, took a step, then halted again, waving at Greg to go first. Probably not wanting to turn his back on him? Or maybe he was just tired? He fell behind immediately. Greg sighed and stopped, forcing the duke to step up to him or make it really obvious that he was trying to keep his distance.

Stuard took a deep breath, and then did step up to him.

“May I ask where we are going, Your Highness?” Greg asked.

“My office. If you don’t mind?” The duke repeated the little wave to make him walk onwards.

So Greg walked, slowly, measuring his steps to those of the Duke Stuard. At least he knew the direction now.

Stolen novel; please report.

“Is there a date set yet for—for when you’ll need the new chair?” Greg asked when the silence between them started to get on his nerves.

“I’ll get to that,” the duke said, still somewhat out of breath just from walking across the flat halls of the palace. “In a moment.”

So Greg kept his mouth shut until they got to the duke’s office. Annabelle was already there, with the three she-wolves who followed her around.

Got yourself dragged into this, huh? Annabelle asked when she saw Greg.

“What did I let myself get dragged into?” Greg asked back.

But before Annabelle could answer, the duke said: “If you would be so kind as to assure our privacy, Annabelle?”

She rolled her eyes. Notice how he’s trying to act all brave around us suddenly?, she asked.

But she did get up and walked towards the back of the room, leaning her shoulder against a wall panel right next to the oven, which swung outwards. Two more she-wolves followed her, while the last one padded right at Greg and the door they had just walked through. He held it open for her before she could ask and watched as she curled up outside. Like a guard dog.

The duke took another deep breath as the door closed, unclenching the fists Greg hadn’t even noticed he had balled.

“Sit! Sit, please!” the duke said with a cheer so fake that Greg barely managed to suppress a flinch.

He did take a guest chair, and the duke sat down behind his heavy and overwrought desk.

“So you noticed that public opinion about werewolves is shifting again,” Stuard said, leaning back.

“It’s very hard not to notice, if you’re the one everyone is suddenly staring at again, yes, Your Highness.”

“Right. Sure. So, to make the matter even more complicated, a little bird told me that David is on his way here with all his surviving werewolves. Who apparently are still numbering over two hundred.”

The duke stared at him, clearly expecting some kind of reaction from him.

So Greg said: “Deva is going to be thrilled.”

Apparently, that answer was unsatisfactory. “Frankly, I’m less worried about Deva than I am about the nobility still gathered here,” the duke replied sharply. “You do realise just how much—damage—David has done to some of these nobles? Half the peers will be paupers by the time the war ends.”

“I don’t see what you want me to do here.”

“All right.” The duke planted his elbows on the desktop. “To put it very simply: I want you to help me help David avoid a treason charge.”

That made even less sense.

“Aren’t you going to be the person handing out such charges?” Greg asked back.

“I will be. In a few months, hopefully. But clearly, this is not the ideal moment for a coronation.” The duke sighed. “Look. All I need from him is a display of loyalty. A reason for me to be loyal to him without looking like I’m welcoming a potential usurper with open arms.”

Ah. So word had travelled.

“I see that you know what I’m talking about.”

“Who else knows about that?” Greg asked.

“Everyone will, soon. Apparently it’s been talked about at Windish,” George Louis said, grimacing. “Enough so that it reached Lady Ariana’s ears, who is understandably concerned. She hasn’t yet raised the question as to why Morgulon didn’t offer her powers when her husband was still alive, but I could hardly blame her if she did.”

Right.

“The lady did share her concerns at the last council meeting. Where it became apparent that the army had known about this, too. Lady deLande unfortunately wasn’t present then to say anything.”

“What a coincidence,” Greg muttered.

“Yes, well, I did not arrange for her to be away,” the duke defended himself promptly. “However. Lord deVale informed me that David expects me to stab him and the rest of the werewolves in the back at the first opportunity.”

Greg sat very still, trying to figure out where this was going. Was he supposed to act surprised? Or shocked?

The duke sighed, shaking his head. “Lord—Gregory. Greg. Let’s be honest, just between the two of us. David has made all of you indispensable when he set the Rot loose in the Heartlands. We only held onto Loegrion after the last war because the Valoise were willing to invest the silver necessary. At this point, my only choice is between the Valoise and the werewolves.”

“So…you’re here to tell me that you’re picking us, yes?”

The duke looked away, and Greg had a strong sense that he was praying for patience. Then he suddenly slapped the desk, leaning forwards. “What do you want—your own bit of forest? A couple of villages? Your own mine? It needn’t be silver. Or, I suppose you’d have a better chance than most in securing yourself a place at the Abhain’s shores?”

He didn’t seem to be joking.

“If you throw in a coat of arms, I’ll think about it,” Greg said. Mostly because he had no idea what else to say.

“Yes, yes, yes, fine. Whatever,” the duke grumbled. “Can we get back to the point now?”

Greg shrugged. “I have no idea what point you’re trying to make, but sure.”

Stuard picked up a little figurine that sat in front of him on the desk—an owl, Greg guessed, rather roughly hacked from wood. About the size of a fist. Quite ugly, really, yet worn smooth, as if the duke had handled it a lot.

“Your brother is bad at politics,” the duke finally said, turning the owl in his hands. “And he doesn’t trust me. If he storms into the city with his army of werewolves—which just killed an Imperial Marshall and defeated a force outnumbering them thirty to one—people might very well panic. Worse, I will be pressed by some of my closest allies to get rid of him before he stages a coup of his own and makes himself a werewolf-king.”

He sat the little figurine down. “I don’t want to fight my own allies.”

“I thought this is about David.”

“It’s the same thing!” George Louis snapped. “You know people—humans—won’t back him. The idea that the werewolves might, will cause trouble. Unless he makes it clear he’s not reaching for the crown. At all.”

“And you’re talking to me about this—why?”

“David trusts you. And you get the politics. And you can talk to him, as a wolf, right?”

“Yes…” Greg said, stretching the word.

“So you could explain. When he gets here. Maybe feed him some lines. And we could make it look like it’s coming from David, spontaneously.”

“You want me to help you stage a performance. With David in the main role.”

“Basically, yes.”

Greg thought about it.

“It’s going to need one hell of an act to calm people down,” he pointed out. “And David is many things, but hardly an entertainer.”

“That’s okay,” the duke said, relaxing a little. “It can look as wooden as a marionette. Then it’ll look authentically David. As long as there’re the right gestures. And words.”

“Hm…” Greg hummed under his breath. “You know, we’ll have to get Morgulon in on this.”

“Sure,” the duke said, suspiciously fast. “I just thought it would be more helpful to start with someone who, well, speaks in complete sentences.”

“Oh, she can do that. As a wolf, I mean,” Greg said.

But at least he saw why the duke had wanted him. “Did you talk to Lane about this?”

“She can’t help, can she?” the duke asked. “Without being obvious about it, I mean.”

“No, but she can complete the picture. You know. Greeting her fiance back from the war and all that.”

The duke looked away, grimacing. But he did nod, eventually. “Of course,” he muttered. “Of course.”

He grimaced again, staring at the little owl. “But you will help?” he asked.

“I will try my best, yes,” Greg said.

Of course he would help David.