Ammas nodded. "They were quite young, I understand."

"Not boys," Denisius said softly, his throat clenching with pity for Prefect Traiste. "But younger than me or Cara."

Silenio looked mystified. "My father never would have allowed it. He said they didn't take private contracts against ruling nobles or their families, and he had no reason to kill Oraldus's sons."

Ammas found that claim highly dubious, but he agreed with the substance of it. "Their names are not marked as either Imperial or private contracts, and there is no payment noted, so I can only assume they were killed for the benefit of Swiftfoot itself. Which tells you what?"

"They must have the Prefect under their thumb," Vos muttered. Ammas nodded.

"It will never be safe for us to enter the Grand Curia, no matter how many Imperial Princes and Princesses we have with us. But we can be smart about it. After the courts close, after nightfall. I haven't been to the Grand Curia in years, but there should still be some discreet entrances we could use, and we have the key to any lock we might encounter." Ammas's eyes swept them all. "This will be incredibly dangerous. I have sworn a vow to Carala. It would be safest for her to be with me, and frankly, Prince Silenio, I need you for this. The rest of you -- "

"Ammas, since when are you being so feeble-minded? I am never dreaming of abandoning you at such a turn." Barthim bowed deeply, clutching one fist to the Hethmar tattoo on his chest.

"Nor will I," said Denisius, and in his eyes was a light not at all unlike what Ammas had seen when the man had galloped off after a fleeing werewolf only to tackle the beast from horseback. Lightly he ran one hand over his shoulder, where the Hethmar tattoo was still fresh. "I'm going to earn this, no matter how dangerous it is."

"Where Lord Marhollow goes, I go," Vos shrugged. "There are many worse places to die than the Grand Curia, after all."

"You are more to the Hethmar's liking than you will ever be admitting, Vos Deathseeker," Barthim said amiably.

There was one member of their group Ammas did not think was so fatalistic. With a sad smile he knelt before Casimir, placing his hands on the boy's shoulders. Though his apprentice had not followed everything they had spoken of, he understood well enough they meant to challenge the Swiftfoot wolves in their lair, and the fear in his eyes was plain to see.

"Casimir," Ammas said gently. "I cannot in good conscience take you with me. I don't even think you should stay in Gallowsport. The moment Prince Silenio's men were alone, something happened to them, and you are no soldier, however brave you are." He shook his head before the boy could protest. "I'm going to have Barthim take you back to Munazyr. You'll never have to go back to the Lioness. You know where I keep my gold. It's yours, if I don't make it home. Yours, with Barthim minding it for you until you come of age."

"No," Casimir said at once.

"Casimir, I won't -- "

"No," Casimir cried defiantly, throwing Ammas's hands off his shoulders. "I will not go home, I will not hide while everybody else is here! Don't you dare make me, Ammas, don't you dare!" There was a fire in the boy's eyes Khozar el-Nalrah would have recognized.

"Casimir, listen to me," Ammas pleaded. "This is an entire den of werewolves we'll be marching into. They've already said they want to infect you. I could never -- "

"You went to Munazyr when the Yellow Death was everywhere! You weren't any older than me!They didn't make you hide in bed while they did what they needed to do!" Casimir crossed his arms over his chest and glared furiously at his master.

"There was a whole group of cursewrights with me -- "

"And I have you. And Barthim. And Vos and Denisius and Carala. If -- if -- if none of you -- " Casimir broke off, looking away, unable to voice his terror of what he would do if all the people in the world he loved were to die tonight and leave him alone.

But Ammas, who remembered perfectly well himself what it had been like to lose everyone he cared about, understood. With a sigh he folded the boy into his arms and embraced him tightly, one hand cupping the back of his head. "All right, lad," he murmured. "Come with us, then. But if I tell you to run, you run. Will you do that?"

Casimir drew back, nodding, looking at the ground, his cheeks flushed with gratitude.

Ammas stood up, his face troubled. "Back to my house, then. We shouldn't go the Grand Curia without preparing as best we can. Prince Silenio, will your men fight for us?"

"No," the Prince scoffed. "But they will fight for their Princess."

"That will have to do," Carala said archly.

Ammas shook his head, but went about cutting away their bonds. They introduced themselves rather awkwardly as Mathia, Ciron, Leuin, and their most senior member, a Sergeant named Morell. They were not terribly pleased to be taking orders from a cursewright (and Ammas resolved to let the prince give them their orders as much as he could permit it), but the idea that they were fighting on behalf of the Princess Carala seemed to fortify them. Four soldiers, the Prince Silenio, and the little band that had traveled with him in such desperation out of Munazyr: Ammas prayed it would be enough.

Nightfall found the eleven of them at Mourthia House. Ammas tried to ignore the bitter taste in his mouth at admitting Silenio Deyn to his family's ancestral home, but he found it hard going. At least, he reflected, the Prince's usual swagger had been almost entirely wiped away by the thrashing he had suffered at Barthim's hands, and his men's attitudes looked to be one of professionalism; even respect. The stories of the Hangman roaming this place had reached them during their excursion to Gallowsport, and whatever else they did not want to anger that legendary spirit, mythical or not. Until last night, Ammas would have found it laughable. After the strange sight he had witnessed in the courtyard he was not so sure.

Still, as he had told Silenio, Ammas needed him. If they were challenged in the Grand Curia, the backing of the Emperor's second son would be invaluable, especially considering he had been sent to Gallowsport at Imperial command. If the price for that support was allowing him to befoul the house of Ammas's childhood with his presence, he supposed he would pay it. The Prince's presence was not without its humorous side, he had to admit. Within an hour of their entry to Mourthia House, the class distinctions that had largely dissolved since they had come together in Munazyr appeared to have reasserted themselves.

Carala and Silenio were in the entry hall, along with Denisius at their side, with Silenio's men and Vos watching on from one corner. The Emperor's children were catching each other up on all that had happened since Carala's disappearance from Talinara, with their attentions mostly focused on Sarai and Thray's cunning in secreting her with the Kerrells; how poorly their mother had been coping with the situation before being sent away to Leusenia for her nerves; and their father, who was of course in a towering rage at Swiftfoot.

"He said they turned on him," Silenio confided to her. Ammas had caught a snippet of this conversation as he descended from the upper floors, having looked at the courtyard to ensure no one was approaching the house. "Years of loyal service, yet they had the audacity to try to draft you into their ranks. Against him, he thinks. I told him you would never turn traitor."

Carala had caught sight of Ammas, the ghost of a smile on her lips. "I did hire a cursewright named Mourthia, though."

Silenio was unimpressed. "The Mourthias owe us more than they can ever repay, no matter what this one might do for you. I'll make sure Father understands it that way."

Ammas had shaken his head and hurried downstairs, though not before Carala caught his eye, a crooked smile on her lips. Perhaps he would ask Barthim to teach the Prince another lesson before tonight was over. Somehow he didn't think Barthim would need much encouragement.