Like pheasants flushed from the undergrowth, the participants of the government meeting scrambled to emerge from their discussion and respond to the new arrival. It was Hyland, the captain of the Tuskdale town guard, who burst into the conference room.

  "Your Grace!" he puffed, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. "We have a... peasant riot situation! Torches, pitchforks, straightened scythes, you name it! Here in front of the palace!"

  "Straightened scythes," muttered Jaethal, shaking her head in disbelief. "Pah. The bumpkins."

  Guelder clenched her teeth to stop her jaw from trembling. It had only been a matter of time. At some point during their rule, every baron or baroness would need to face a rioting mob. It had happened to Maegar Varn just a few days before the visit of the Nightvale delegation. Of course, General Darlac had handled it with perfect, casual elegance, not shedding a single drop of blood, easy as pie... or so Baron Varn had boasted, ever so proud of his fiancée's achievements. Guelder couldn't help but wonder about Darlac's unembellished version, but considering the news trickling in from Varnhold, there was a chance she would never get to hear that.

  After her latest measures against the plague, it was no wonder that the time for her first riot had come now.

  The monster incidents had been projected upon a map, showing a high concentration around the river Gudrin. As a response, the baroness was having the villages along the river evacuated, moving their populations to two new temporary settlements at the Little Sellen and the Shrike, and having them carefully monitored for new infections that were sent to the capital for observation and quarantine. An effective treatment was not yet available. Even high-level cleric and druid spells bounced back from the patients, only temporarily easing the symptoms but unable to stop the monsters from hatching. The remains of the victims weren't terribly informative. If Guelder wanted to learn more about the stages of the disease, there was only one way to do so. She was considering a reckless, invasive method of examination – which she should be discussing with her advisors right now, instead of wrangling a pack of angry peasants.

  Guelder struggled to shove down her annoyance at the interruption, and even worse, her primal instinct began to rear its head to back up her anger. Go beast. Attack. Teach them respect. Let them taste the claws. Or let the claws taste their flesh. Let them learn the hard way. Blood. Blood.

  It might not have been such a great idea to hold a council meeting on the day before the full moon.

  "Any tips?" she asked of no one in particular, her eyes darting from one advisor to another.

  "Stay away from them, Your Grace," suggested the High Priest. "If you want to address them, do it from the balcony, where you're safe from their improvised weapons... if not from their torches, stones and rotten eggs. Or let me handle it. I have experience with angry mobs. People in Galt do this all the time. It's in our blood, so to say."

  Guelder gave him a wry side-glance.

  "I am keenly aware of that, Jhod. But if I remember correctly, your experience is mostly about how to escalate a situation, not how to defuse it."

  Jhod Kavken lowered his gaze. He didn't like to be reminded of his history as a rabble-rouser, least of all by a werecreature whose ilk he used to persecute.

  "Still," he continued, "I'm happy to bear the brunt of their ire. If they need to take it out on someone, let that be me."

  "Forget it, Jhod. I appreciate your offer, but I am not going to hide behind your back. I intend to face them myself. Trust me, I will be fine."

  If only she were so certain about that deep inside.

  "Tell them we are at war," suggested Kassil Aldori. "War rhetoric always does the trick. Tell them you know the culprits and you will crack down on them hard. These oafs don't give a damn to your scientific approach. They need someone to blame. If you don't want to be their scapegoat, you'd better find another one for them, as soon as possible."

  "Rip your shirt open and show them your scars!" chimed in Linzi. "Tell them you suffered all this for them!"

  "Linzi," sighed Hazel. "Whatever you have been taught in Pitax, you cannot solve every problem with boobs. Also, inadequate self-care is not something to boast about."

  Guelder glared at both of them. She was getting tired of Hazel's increasingly ham-fisted hints that she should get a Potion of Greater Restoration for herself. They didn't understand. Her body shape was of secondary, no, tertiary importance compared to the research and the protective measures, which all cost gold. She'd adopted a scrupulous stretching and limbering routine to regain her shoulder's full mobility, and that was enough. She would not undergo expensive cosmetic treatments while her subjects were being exploded by monster portals.

  "Shut up, all of you," she hissed. "I am going out. Wish me luck."

  "At least put on some buffs," said Hazel. They opened their backpack and revealed an assortment of potions, bottled neatly in vials of different sizes, shapes and colours.

  "Give me a Cat's Grace. That is all I need. I want them to see me as one of them. Mangled, exhausted, teetering on the edge of my stress tolerance, and despite all that, still standing my ground."

  "As you wish, Guel. Jhod, come with me to the balcony. Bring your bow. Her Grace might need a pair of snipers to cover her retreat."

  Guelder took a deep breath, downed the potion, and walked out to the square, flanked by Valerie and Tristian. About two dozen people had gathered in front of the palace, equipped as Hyland had described them. For a moment, Guelder thought she saw Remus and his lantern among them. They fell silent as they saw her, as if they hadn't expected her to show her face at all.

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  "People of Nightvale!" she exclaimed. "You are upset, and for good reason. Our land is deep in trouble. Every single life claimed by the plague or the monsters weighs down on my heart, too. However, we must stay strong in the face of hardships."

  The last words were swallowed by indiscriminate shouting.

  "This land is cursed! Just like its ruler! Put it all to the torch!"

  "Enough!" said Guelder, raising her hand. Admirably, it worked. "My team of experts is working to identify the cause and the solution. We are making progress, but we need more time. Hang in there and bear with us for a little longer. I am doing everything in my power to ease the suffering and resolve the situation, and I am ready to do even more. I need you to trust me. We can only see this through together."

  "Ease the suffering? By ousting us from our homes?"

  "Which of your lackeys will get my house?"

  "Begone, bitch!" yelled a particularly bitter voice from the back lines, and its owner hurled something towards the baroness.

  In a flash, Guelder's hand shot out and snatched the flying object from the air. The smooth shell of the egg cracked between her fingers, but there was no smell of sulphur, no goo running down her arm.

  Bowstrings creaked behind the railing of the balcony. Guelder ignored the sound. Her eyes sought out the culprit, her pupils narrowed.

  "Are you out of your mind, man?" she cried out. "Look! Look what you have done! You could have killed her!"

  She raised her hand. A fluffy, yellow chick was standing on her palm, looking clueless, half covered in pieces of eggshell. Cute, lovely, appetising, making Guelder realise how long she'd been going without a meal. Again, she restrained her animal instinct and banished it to the back of her mind. This was not the moment to let the beast emerge.

  A man with a pitchfork turned back towards the egg hurler, chuckling.

  "Dima, you're such a dumbass," he remarked. "You're too stupid even to keep chickens. Did you take eggs from under a broody hen to throw at her?"

  A snicker ran through the mob. The man who looked like Remus popped his dirty hood upon his head and slipped away. Guelder smiled triumphantly, holding up the chick, safe in the shelter of her hands.

  "Learn from this, all of you," she exclaimed. "You feel you are plummeting into despair, with nothing to hold on to, and expect a rough landing at the end. A frightening experience. Still, there is hope. That little chance that something or someone will catch you before you get crushed... it is always there. And this is why we all must stand together and look out for each other. Hope will prevail!"

  "Maybe it will," someone muttered.

  "Not that we have anyone else to trust than her," said another one.

  "I say, let's cut her some slack," chimed in a third voice. "If she doesn't put it to good use... well, the palace won't go anywhere. We can still torch it next time."

  In a matter of minutes, the square was empty. Well, almost.

  "Dima, you stay," said Guelder.

  The egg hurler shuffled forward, wringing his hands.

  "Look, Your Grace, I'm sorry—"

  "Apology accepted," said the baroness, cutting him short. "Take your chick and raise her with the love and care she deserves. As a consequence of what you have done, you will have to teach her to eat and drink yourself. I hope you know how to do that. Be kind to her, and with time, she will treat your family to top quality eggs."

  "So, it's a hen? How do you know?"

  "I am a druid, and not half bad at that. Of course I know. Dismissed."

  Guelder returned to the conference room and dropped herself down on her chair, not giving a damn to basic decency. She was tired. Actually, being tired was becoming her default state.

  "Nice job with the chick," grinned Hazel, returning from the balcony. "I thought you would keep it."

  "I spared you the paperwork of writing it off against the next tax payment of Dima Dumbass. You are welcome."

  "I can't believe you pulled it off, Baroness," said Kesten Garess. "Don't get complacent, though. They will be back sooner than you'd think."

  "I know. Therefore, we are going to ramp up our efforts. Tristian, issue a proclamation. Volunteers affected by symptoms of the disease and brave enough to undergo a vivisection will be offered a reward. Think four-digit sums. I want five volunteers at most, but if we are lucky, one might be enough. Use them to find the pathogen and test if the disease can be cured by surgery. If any of the subjects does not make it, the reward goes to their family as a one-time allowance."

  Tristian went as pale as snow, but nodded in agreement.

  "This is a slippery slope, Your Grace," warned Valerie. "It will set a precedent to state-backed body and organ trafficking."

  "Well, then make sure to legislate it away, once the crisis is over," snapped Guelder. "Kesten, it will be your task to channel the people's anger into useful activities. Organise a militia and deploy them to dispose of hatching monsters. Patrol the most heavily affected areas to provide your men with sufficient practice."

  Kesten drew himself up to his full height, acknowledging his task, apparently glad to make himself useful.

  "I still maintain," interjected the High Priest, "that you should look into the cult of Lamashtu. Hazel showed me the sketches they'd made of goblin rock paintings they'd found on the hunting grounds. Perhaps there is more to it."

  "Unlikely," said Guelder. "We have no time to waste on red herrings. I am increasingly certain that the solution lies elsewhere."

  "I will watch out for goblins, Jhod," volunteered Kesten, casting a challenging side glance at the baroness. "We have enough on our plates without those sneaky little pests encroaching on us. And of course, I'll let you know if I discover cultist activity."

  Guelder let it slide, just this once, but made a mental note to keep an eye on Kesten. It would not do for him to talk over his ruler's head.

  "Very well," she said. "However, keep your main focus on the monsters. Do not attack the goblins, unless they become an active threat to the people. If you need the field team's intervention, make sure to alert me. Everyone, report to me in a week with your results."