But here, not just in Mourthia House but through the whole surrounding neighborhood called Commodores' Row, the scent had diminished considerably, and in sight of Mourthia House it was nearly nonexistent. That had comforted her, but now as she followed Ammas to the first floor and then through empty parlors and halls toward an ironbound door that could only lead to the cellars, a disturbing possibility occurred to her.

"Ammas?" she asked softly as he wrestled the door halfway open -- it was not stuck as badly as the postern gate, but its hinges were disagreeable. Ammas looked over his shoulder with an inquisitive glance. "Do you think -- well, ha, do you suppose the rumors we heard are true?" Carala tried to make the question sound casual, even jocular, but the fear in her voice was evident even to her own ears.

But Ammas scoffed. "It's ridiculous. Vapors from the dissolution and when my parents were arrested. The Nightgate scholars resisted fiercely. So did the seer-magistrates in the Grand Curia. The city was in open revolt. Of course there are absurd ghost stories all these years later. Don't concern yourself with them."

In her time traveling with Ammas, Carala had never known him to be so dismissive of something like this. She supposed, though, that his feelings on the matter were more personal than professional. They had arrived in Gallowsport three days ago, and Vos and Barthim had set about collecting what rumors they could about both the city in general and Ammas's old home in particular. Ammas had not contributed to these discussions when they were not safely ensconced in their rooms, as he was traveling almost as incognito as Carala herself.

They heard nothing about werewolves (which given how thick the stench of them was shocked Carala), a good deal about Prefect Traiste and the untimely deaths of his sons and how poorly the Prefect was coping with it, and numerous tavern fire tales concerning the Hangman of the Harbor. At first Ammas had smiled reminiscently at these stories, remembering them well from his own youth, but whatever dubious nostalgia they conjured withered when five separate barmen and serving girls had informed them that the Hangman haunted Mourthia House, and no one dared get within a hundred feet of the place after nightfall.

Ammas found this oddly amusing at first, but he quickly tired of hearing earnest stories about his childhood home being the domain of Gallowsport's most infamous spectre, and after a while he found it necessary to absent himself from the table whenever some barman or drunkard launched into a story about the thing's exploits. Now, as he wrenched open the door to Mourthia House's cellars, he scowled and muttered irritably about foolish ghost stories and how of all the stories he had heard of the Hangman when he was a boy, none of them had ever felt the need to confine the creature's activities to a single house, no matter how cursed the common folk thought it to be. Carala supposed he was probably right, but the utter blackness of the descending stair before her was not comforting. In fact, she found it distinctly reminiscent of the catacomb beneath Ammas's temple.

The airy spirit, however, revealed it to be nothing but a humble stone-lined stairwell, its interior musty and cool, and as dust-choked as any other room in the house. Ammas murmured softly to the spirit and its light intensified, illuminating a vast, low-ceilinged chamber that had clearly been a wine cellar at one time but which had been converted to an altogether different purpose. Torch brackets were fastened to the support columns that marched down the chamber's length. Ammas knelt by one to retrieve what few torches he had fitted in his pack, giving the spirit a chance to rest tonight. Carala had brought a flint of her own -- a gift from Casimir -- and so she knelt by his side, helping him light these pitch black reaches a little better.

"Ammas," Carala said cautiously, "why did your father have this place in his house?"

Ammas smiled grimly, looking from one side of the cellar to the other. In the wide alcoves that had once held endless wooden racks heavy with bottles of every imaginable vintage, stout iron bars had been installed, converting the niches into large prison cells. "Not for torture, I assure you. Let me get this lit and you'll understand a little better."

Even before they had reached Gallowsport, Ammas suggested they investigate his old home, as it boasted perfect facilities to keep Carala safe during her next change. "Or at least it did the last time I was there," he had said, admitting he knew nothing of the house's current situation. There were other options, and three days would be plenty of time to decide upon one.

Privately he had already determined that if this city truly were an enormous werewolf den then it would be best to remove Carala as far as they could beyond the outskirts. But the notion of using Mourthia House was immensely preferable, and so he insisted on determining if that was possible. But he had not told Carala the precise nature of those facilities until they had left the others back at the inn. She had been too surprised to ask further while they were out on the streets, but actually seeing these cells made it impossible not to wonder at their purpose.

Wordlessly Ammas led her past the flickering torches to a broad set of double doors at the far end of the cellar. The air was surprisingly dry down here, and these doors were in better working order than any other they had seen in the house so far. Past the doors was something so out of place Carala wondered if it was an illusion. A wide and shallow set of stairs led through a row of benches to what looked almost like an altar. Had Senrich been a secret worshipper of the Dread Titans? Such rumors about the arcane brethren were common, though her time with Ammas had caused her to doubt the brethren ever worshipped much of anything, save perhaps their own knowledge.

Then, when Ammas stepped up to the tall wooden object she had taken for an altar and seated himself behind it in an enormous oaken wing chair, she understood: this was not a temple, but a courtroom. "Your father . . . presided here?" she asked wonderingly. "Why would he need this place, with the Grand Curia so close?"

Ammas didn't answer for a while, leaning back in the chair and studying the sturdily built wooden rafters, tracing patterns in the thick dust of the bench with one hand. "Many reasons," he said at last. "Sometimes an emergency hearing on some matter needed to be held, and this was more convenient than rushing up to the Curia and rousing the judicial guards in the middle of the night -- there was always a pair of them here, you know, and it was a fairly prestigious shift. My mother often made late night meals for them when my father needed to hold court. Sometimes it would be a last minute appeal for a condemned man. And other times, students from Nightgate and other academies would come here to participate in practice trials or sit exams they had missed. No one liked sitting an exam for the Overseer in his personal courtroom, I can tell you that."

Ammas laughed deeply, the first genuine sound of mirth Carala had heard from him since they had arrived in this city, and without realizing it she found herself smiling back at him. The laughter died, and a regretful look passed over his face. "And there were secret trials, often for some noble who could not afford to stand trial in a public Curia and so had arranged for a more discreet affair. My father hated that. But -- well -- "

"He had his orders," Carala said quietly. Ammas nodded, his eyes meeting hers.

"He did." Ammas looked around the little courtroom. "I was surprised to see the Curia judges weren't using this place. I'm sure they still have need for secret courtrooms from time to time." Contempt dripped from his voice. With a sigh he rose from the bench and walked around it, seating himself in one of the front row galleries, looking up at Carala as he set the airy spirit beside him, letting its glow spill out across the room.

"Carala," he said, his voice uncertain, "there are things we must discuss before moonrise. Before noontime, even."

"I know," she said softly, drawing a deep breath and seating herself beside him, though not intimately close. They had not spoken of the kiss since they had fled Vilais, but she knew sooner or later they must. Night after night she had wrestled with it, what it had meant, where things would take her once she was cured -- if she was cured -- but she had not looked forward to this conversation, regardless of its outcome.

For a moment she considered reaching out for Ammas's hand, but before she could do so he had leaned forward, clasping his hands at his knees and looking not at her but at the judge's bench. A thick, not at all comfortable silence descended on that dilapidated courtroom. Ammas broke it first, his tone subdued.