“Captain Byrne, General Dunedain,” Raisa said. “I asked General Klemath to meet us in the audience chamber.”

Amon nodded, but his gray eyes never left Raisa’s face. “Is something wrong, Your Majesty?” he asked. “If you would like to postpone this—”

“No,” Raisa said. “This situation won’t improve with waiting. Shall we go?” On impulse, she turned to Cat. “Lady Tyburn, please come with us.”

Raisa led her officers toward the audience chamber, her guard trailing her, Reid Nightwalker among them. Cat ghosted along ahead, looking down side corridors and out windows.

“Where is everyone?” she said, rubbing her tattooed forearms. “It reminds me of Ragmarket before a streetlord fight.”

But to Raisa’s eyes, the corridors were not deserted. Wolves milled in her path, yipping, their ruffs standing on end. They collected in front of her, dissipating and then reappearing as she and her party walked through. Their voices resonated in her ears: Beware!

Raisa tried hard not to react to their presence, for fear her new general would think she had lost her wits. I know this is risky, she messaged them silently. But I have no choice.

They crossed the barbican, passing through one tower and onto a walkway to another, where the circular audience chamber was.

They were nearly at the door when Cat stopped abruptly, and stood looking out of one of the tall windows in the crossover from the Queen’s Tower. “Lot of stripers out there, Your Majesty,” she said, as Raisa came abreast of her.

Raisa turned off, coming up beside Cat in the window. Nightwalker stood behind Raisa, looking out over her head. There were a lot of stripers out there—as the mercenary soldiers were called—a veritable sea of them, in fact, on both sides of the river, surrounding the curtain wall.

“General Dunedain,” Raisa called, motioning Char to the window. “Did you intend to address the troops as well as the officers?”

“Eventually,” Char said. “But not today.” She gazed out at the thousands of soldiers, tucking her chin and glowering from under her brows. Breathing an upland oath, she turned; her eyes met Amon’s, and some knowledge crackled between them. Nightwalker moved closer, his dark eyes fixed on them as if for a signal.

“Corporal Greenholt, how many Guard on duty in the palace today?” Amon asked, his voice low and steady.

“Thirty, Captain,” Pearlie said promptly. “And fifty more in the guardhouse, the other side of the drawbridge.”

“Send somebody across the bridge to the guardhouse and bring everyone on the double into the keep. Keep it quiet, all right? Then raise the drawbridge,” Amon said, as if discussing the weather.

“Yes, sir,” Pearlie said.

“I’ll go,” Hallie volunteered.

“And me,” Mick said. They left at a dead run.