"What do you mean?"

Irgrin rolled to the head of the table and tugged back the sheeting. Ammas could see the man was sturdily built, pale with death, and little else, because most of his head was gone. The cursewright made a thoughtful noise in his throat and bent down, inspecting the chin, where a large and ragged hole ringed with powder burns tunneled into the flesh. "Someday, Mielle," he said with a glance at the pepperbox on the Captain's hip, "you're going to show me how that thing works."

"Prove to me that you can show the Doge was wrong not to bring you in immediately and I'll let you fire it yourself."

"Now that's something I couldn't possibly resist. May I have my dagger, Mielle?"

Thalia drew it from her belt and handed it to Ammas, who murmured thanks and sheathed it. "You need it for the test?"

"No, but I know this old drunk can't wait to take apart a skymetal dagger to steal secrets of my trade." Irgrin cackled delightedly. "Now, if I were a landowner I'd be backing you for Doge in the next election, Mielle -- "

"Gods forbid," she muttered.

" -- because you're about to see how easily I could have proven what you needed." From a pouch on his belt Ammas drew his twinhooks. The silver prongs sprang apart, glittering in the morgue's lamplight.

Mielle swore under her breath. "I swear before the gods, Ammas, the next time you're arrested I'm frisking you. Are you ever not armed?"

"Depends on your definition. Frankly I can't blame you. I certainly wouldn't want to frisk me. But this is a tool, not a weapon." Ammas peered up at the Captain with a crooked smile. "It makes a wonderful lockpick."

Mielle shook her head and watched, scowling, arms crossed over her chest. Irgrin shook with laughter. Ammas bent back to the corpse, his expression deadly serious as he tilted back the brim of his hat to better see. Lightly he pressed the silver prongs to the dead man's sternum, directly between the pectorals. At once thin smoke began to rise from the white flesh, accompanied by an odor of cooking meat and burning hair. Beneath these more familiar scents lurked that rank woodland perfume, now with smoky undercurrents.

Ammas held the prongs against the white flesh until black scorch marks were visible around their sharp tips. Lips curling into a satisfied sneer, he withdrew the prongs, wiping them on his robes before returning them to their pouch. A charred burn was plainly visible on the stark white flesh.

"That is what werewolves feel when they touch silver. When they're alive, their bodies can repair the damage almost instantly, but not too quickly for pain to register. It makes silver blades and arrows more effective in fighting them, more because it maddens them with pain than doing any lingering injury." Ammas was circling the body now. Mielle was glaring at the floor.

"'His Vigilance.' He's a fool," she muttered. "A pompous, swaggering fool."

"Don't be too hard on the Doge," Irgrin soothed. "Stronger men than he is have turned tail at the idea of angering Somilius Deyn."

Ammas, who was far more in agreement with Mielle Thalia, said nothing. On his second pass around the body he stopped short. "Mielle," he said harshly, "what is this?"

Thalia stepped forward, her gaze following Ammas's pointing finger. On the dead man's upper left arm was scrawled a small tattoo.

"Winged feet?" she asked curiously. "Does it mean something? Irgrin noted it. We thought it a military mark, possibly a criminal gang."

"It may mean everything," Ammas said hurriedly, rushing from this body to the next. Without thinking he threw back the next sheet, only to feel his gorge rise unpleasantly as he saw a basket containing the untidy mess of fur, innards, and blood that had been the wolf who had threatened him personally and killed Lena. Quickly Ammas flipped the sheet back in place.

"I asked Irgrin how you managed to do that," Mielle said with an almost audible smirk. "All he would say is it was 'a proper cursewright's work.' Any chance you'll elaborate?"

"None whatsoever," snorted Irgrim.

"None whatsoever," said Ammas, who was now rushing to the third body. Under the sheet lay the pale gray werewolf, its head twisted back to a more natural angle but its neck no less obviously broken. A long, now-dry tongue lolled from its gaping jaws. Ignoring this unpleasant sight, Ammas bent over the wolf's upper left arm, spreading its fur in his fingers to examine the hide beneath. "I need a blade. A barber's razor if you have one. Something with an edge."

Irgrin nodded and rolled away toward the shelves where he kept his tools in meticulous rows. Thalia strode up to Ammas's side, hands crossed at the small of her back. "Did Barthim really do this with his bare hands?"

"So far as I know." Ammas hadn't looked up, still trying to peer through the werewolf's thick pelt. After a moment he grimaced and began tugging out tufts of fur, all to no avail. The pale gray fur was interrupted by an irregular white imperfection, barely visible. It could have been nothing but the creature's natural markings.

Mielle stared at the wolf's broken neck and glazed eyes. "I really do need to be careful about who I send down to the Lioness," she muttered, more to herself than Ammas.

Irgrin returned with a gleaming barber's razor, passing it into Ammas's hand like a chirurgeon's aide. Ammas flicked open the blade and began scraping away the gray fur. Drunk or not, Irgrin kept his equipment in as fine condition as Ammas did his own, though he supposed it helped he had guardsmen on punishment detail to assist him instead of a single boy apprentice, however devoted.

All three of them stared transfixed as Ammas shaved away the fur. The skin beneath was a mottled gray, more akin to a wolf's hide than any human skin tone. After a few minutes where the only sounds to be heard was the scrape of metal against fur and Cayle in the background sloshing water over stained examination tables, Ammas straightened.

On the bare patch of wolfskin was a distorted image. It had been stretched and malformed by the expansion of skin from the creature's metamorphosis, but its shape was undeniably similar to that on the arm of the man Mielle had shot: a pair of winged feet. Ammas turned around, folding the razor and passing it back to Irgrin. There was still anger in his eyes, but the time for that had passed.

"Here is what I know, Mielle. First: burn these bodies. These wolves are not typical of their kind. They are an organized pack or cult, and I do not know how to treat their sickness. If he remembers his lessons, Irgrin can explain to you the difference between infected and ritual wolves."

Irgrin grew very pale. Ammas took that to mean he remembered.

"The wolf's blood sickness usually doesn't linger in dead blood, but it may in this case. A madman might inject the blood directly into the brain or heart and so infect himself. So take precautions. Second: this symbol is the token of their pack. I have no doubt that if you examine those fragments in the basket, you will find a patch of skin with this tattoo. It is a caravan group called Swiftfoot Carting. If they have an office in Munazyr, you must shutter it. Arrest every man or woman who bears this mark. Post guards at every gate, at the custom house, and at the harbormaster's office, to inspect incoming caravans for traders and guards who bear this mark. They may all be infected, but some may not even know about the sickness. Touch them with silver to be sure. If they react with pain, kill them."

"Kill them, Ammas? Don't you have more extensive tests -- "

Ammas was already shaking his head. "The full diagnosis is pointless now. We know this pack is abroad, and they are traveling. They have been reported in Talinara, and here, and Gallowsport. They may be all across the Anointed Realms. They may even have passed into the Sultan's kingdoms. I have no method of treating them. If I find one, it is for my client before anyone else, for she was not brought into this pack willingly. Kill them, Mielle." The next bit of advice raised a sour taste in his mouth, but he couldn't ignore it. "Third, you must inform the Malachite Throne. Go through Varallo Thray. Don't mention the princess. Don't mention me. Tell them you've proved to your satisfaction there are at least three members of the same caravan company who are werewolves. Tell them they're ritual wolves. Let them think Irgrin determined that, we know they tolerate him."

"Only because they don't know me like you do, Ammas."

"Ammas, how can I not mention the princess?"

"Because I'm the only one who can put a stop to this. You have no other cursewrights. By the time you got Meryk Orveil out here from Summervale, half the Realms could be infected. If that is even their goal -- I don't know what they want, besides the princess. If you put the Throne on her trail and so mine, you will most likely kill the only man who's capable of curing the Emperor's daughter." Ammas shook his head, his eyes blazing with a near madness above the blotched remnants of the spirit salve. "When he learns he destroyed his daughter's only chance through his own mistake, he'll find somewhere else to place that mistake. Perhaps this entire city, if his rage is great enough."

Mielle Thalia nodded slowly. Ammas thought she looked mildly nauseated.

"And that is all the advice I have to give you, Mielle. I hope it's enough for you to work with. If you are lucky, these creatures' only goal is capturing my client, although I can scarcely imagine why that should be." Ammas swept off his hat and bowed slightly. "With that, I ask your leave to depart Titansgrave. I have rather a lot to do in a short time if I'm to fulfill my end of our bargain."

Mielle Thalia was a woman who thrived on taming crises, and with Ammas's advice she was already formulating plans of action. With a nod to Irgrin, she took Ammas by the elbow and led him out of the morgue.

The morgue was easily accessible to one of Titansgrave's smaller courtyards, and it was not long before Ammas found himself in the cool night air, the first hints of dawn barely visible on the horizon. Thalia shivered, missing her greatcoat. Loudly she hailed one of her guards, summoning a cart for Ammas; a standard patrol wagon rather than a gaol cart now.

"Mielle," Ammas said, his tone softer than it had been at any point in his trip to Titansgrave, "about Lena -- "

"The Temple of the Graces," Mielle replied gently. "I'll handle it, Ammas."

"Thank you. I'll reimburse you when I return."

Mielle shook her head. "There's no need for that. It was my fault more than anyone else's. I knew the Doge was wrong and still I followed his order."

"If you hadn't, he'd have found himself a more pliant Captain-Commander, and the city would be the lesser for your absence."

Mielle smiled crookedly. "That may be the most romantic thing you've ever said to me."

Ammas did not return her smile. "Only the truth, Mielle." He paused. "Say the Doge's fault, rather than your own, if you must. But in the end it's only the fault of these monsters."

"At least I have a cursewright to deal with them."

"You do. Don't think I don't know what I owe you."

"Oh, I'm not going to forget that. It'll be a while before you repay me for this."

"I know it." Ammas turned and clambered into the cart. Before it could leave, Mielle asked the driver to halt a moment.

"Ammas? Good luck."

Ammas said nothing, but merely nodded. As the cart trundled toward the Doge's Avenue, he pulled the brim of his hat down, hoping for a brief sleep before addressing the long day ahead of him -- the second one in a row, come to think of it. There was too much to think about, and he had barely nodded off before the familiar sight of the Prideful Lioness and the ruined temple came into view.