Osgar Lorenz was as good as dead.

  That was the singular thought that rang in Mouse’s mind as she stood in the hall of the judiciary, where the former captain of the guard stood with slumped shoulders and dull, glassy eyes, awaiting his trial. In truth, it was like the same thought shared by all those present, the thirty or so who had been gathered to witness the proceedings, a small crowd taking the shape of Councilors, administrators, peers. There might have been more, were it not for the fact that the trial was one being held in relative secrecy, both for the sake of avoiding scandal or incurring some sort of public outrage, as well as for the fact that Osgar, as they had been warned by the physician, was in fact like to be very near death’s door.

  The former captain of the guard, at some forty years of age, had been a man with square shoulders, a barrel chest, and sharp, observant eyes. He had been strong and stout, bold and somewhat boisterous, commanding the respect of all those beneath him. But the man who stood here now in the middle of the room with a sunken chest and dull, glassy eyes had none of those traits which had defined Osgar Lorenz, both as a guardsman and a man. He was a ghost, Mouse thought, a shadow of the person he had once been, sharing little more than his name. His stature was thinner than what it had been, making his clothes fit rather ill, and a ragged beard had formed on his jaw.

  He had been weakened by sickness, a likely victim of contaminated grain, the physician had said, and his condition since his surrender to the court had deteriorated rapidly. His body trembled with the prolonged effort of standing, and from time to time a moan escaped his lips. He had passed the point of minor pains and a disturbance of temperament and had progressed to vomiting, cramps, spasms, and even hallucination. It was a sight difficult to bear, made even more difficult by the knowledge of the person he had once been.

  Mouse had wondered that a man in Osgar’s condition should be forced to stand trial, but apparently this was part of the reason he had been called on such short notice, so that he would be given a chance to answer for his crimes, to clear his conscious before he met his end. The kind thing, of course, would be to pardon him, to excuse him from appearing before the judiciary to renew his testimony, and allow him to die in what peace could be arranged. But of course, the Empress did not concern herself with such kindnesses. It was just as it had been with Cedric, as it was with everyone. And though Mouse understood that the crown could not afford to be forgiving, for after all, it was a known fact that mercy bred insolence, she did believe in something called humanity.

  The room was quiet now, in anticipation of the Empress’s arrival, every eye trained on the man who cowered in the center of the room, his head lolling between his shoulders. And in that quiet, Mouse felt as though she could nearly hear the thought whispered aloud, echoing in the stillness: Osgar Lorenz was as good as dead.

  At last, the Empress, who until now had been in an antechamber under advisement of one of her Council, came into the room, her steps echoing in the silence. She allowed her gaze to settle on the man before her, a look of ire, rather than pity, writ across her countenance as she lowered herself into her chair. The woman was angry, thought Mouse, as she studied her face for traces of sympathy, but she did not think it because of Osgar’s betrayal at Silver Lake, but rather, because she felt that he had robbed of her chance at vengeance. What was it to condemn a dying man? What satisfaction could be had from carrying out a justice no more punishing that what life had chosen to deal him?

  The Empress’s eyes were narrow, her mouth twisted in discontent.

  “Osgar Lorenz,” she said, “you have been brought here today to stand trial on the basis of testimony made to Ulrich Giroux and Ryce Eberhardt, the Captain of the royal guard and his right hand. You stand accused of conspiracy against the crown of Aros, known endangerment of a member of the royal family, and willful neglect of sworn duty to the crown. Do you wish now to renew or amend your former testimony?”

  Osgar’s eyes slowly lifted from the floor, his head trembling with the effort of straightening his neck. His lips parted, but no words left them.

  The Empress pursed her lips.

  “Osgar Lorenz,” she said again, “Do you wish to renew or amend your former testimony made to the Captain of the guard?”

  Osgar’s eyes drifted vacantly to the place where Ulrich stood, rigid and stone-faced, in front of the dais. A few broken syllables escaped his lips, but none of what he attempted to say was decipherable. The Empress, angered by this, leaned forward in her chair, her cold eyes boring into the man before her.

  “I will ask again,” she said. “Do you, Osgar Lorenz, wish to renew or amend your testimony?”

  “—new, Majesty,” the man’s voice came, a rasping whisper that barely broke the silence.

  “I cannot hear you, Osgar,” said the Empress in a voice as stern as her expression.

  “Renew, Your Majesty,” Osgar said, his voice louder this time. Mouse felt a chill run down her spine as a murmur went up throughout the crowd. She did not know what she had expected, but it was not that Osgar would wish to make no further amendment to his statement, to let it stand without adding anything to his defense.

  “There is nothing else you wish to add?” asked the Empress, “No one else you wish to accuse, no further explanation for your actions?”

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  Osgar shook his head.

  “No, Your Majesty,” he said, his voice thin and coarse.

  The Empress stared at him a moment longer, sitting so far forward in her seat as to nearly be on the edge of it. Her eyes continued to bore into the former captain.

  “There is nothing else at all you wish to say?” she asked, some of the edge now gone from her voice. She was looking for an apology, Mouse realized, for some expression of remorse, to know that Osgar had been sincere in his claim that he had intended no harm.

  The man teetered unsteadily on his feet for a moment, wincing under some unseen pain, before speaking again.

  “No, Your Majesty,” he said.

  The Empress now leaned back in her chair, her mouth tight, and let her arms fall to her lap.

  “All here today who have heard this man’s testimony,” she said, addressing the room in general, “make yourselves know.”

  There was a low rumble of voices as all those present complied with the order.

  “Maudeleine Regina Toth,” Mouse whispered, letting her own name be swallowed up by the others, as though in doing so she might somehow absolve herself.

  The room now seemed to hold its breath as the word of the Empress was awaited.

  “Very well, then,” the woman said at last. “I, Idalia Aemilia Toth, bearing full judicial power granted me by right of reign hereby declare Osgar Lorenz guilty of all those crimes of which he stands accused, namely, conspiracy against the crown of Aros, known endangerment of a member of the royal family, and willful neglect of sworn duty to the crown.” Her eyes once again fell on the man before her. “Granted he does not perish from those trials he presently endures, he will be given ten days to make peace with all those he has wronged in this life and thereafter will be executed by means yet to be determined by the court.”

  Mouse felt her heart sink as she watched the tears run silently down Osgar’s cheeks. His head slumped once again forward, falling between his shoulders.

  “Furthermore,” said the Empress, “I brand Osgar Lorenz a traitor to the crown of Aros and an enemy of the state. Upon his death, he will be buried in an unmarked grave on foreign soil where only his gods will know him.”

  Mouse ran down the hallway, hurrying after the Captain who had stormed out of the room the moment Osgar’s sentence had been issued.

  “Ulrich!” she called after him, trying as best she could to gain him. “Captain!”

  But the man did not slow his stride, nor did he show any sign that he could hear her. When at last Mouse caught up to him, she was nearly out of breath, but nonetheless, planted herself in his path.

  “Captain,” she said, “please, I do not understand. Why was Osgar sentenced to death?”

  “What does it matter?” replied Ulrich, his face stoic as his eyes avoided Mouse’s. “The man is as good as dead.”

  “Yes, but—"

  “What do you not understand?” Ulrich asked, his eyes now finding Mouse’s. “The man has been charged with a crime, three in fact, and now he is made to pay for them.”

  Mouse shook her head, her brow knitting itself together.

  “He is condemned to death and branded a traitor,” she said. “And for what? For some careless remark?”

  The Captain did not answer her.

  “How could a man in Osgar’s condition even be made to stand trial?” she asked.

  “It was the ruling of the physician and of the judiciary that he was fit to answer to his crimes,” Ulrich said. “If you have questions or complaints about how the trial was conducted, I suggest that you see them.”

  And with that, he resumed his journey down the hallway. But Mouse would not let him get away.

  “Can there truly be no hope of his recovery?” she asked, trailing after him, “no course of treatment that might allow him to—“

  “The man is as good as dead,” Ulrich snapped, turning on his heel to face her. “What more do you want me to say? That it was a mistake to accept his testimony in the first place? That it was a mistake to have him held in this,” he gestured with a hand, “prison of a castle? That it was a mistake to allow him to confess to a crime I do not believe he committed?”

  Mouse blinked at the Captain. She had never seen him angry before. No, that was not true. She had never seen him show his anger before. It had been there all along; she had seen it in the clench of his jaw, the strain in his face, the lines that deepened around his eyes, but now it seemed that the wall that he had worked so hard to construct, the one that held in place all those sentiments which conflicted with his sense of duty, was beginning to crumble.

  “Osgar was my captain,” he said, the flecks of gold burning brightly in his hazel eyes as he looked at Mouse, “and I failed him. Because I was foolish enough and arrogant enough to think that if I played things right, he might escape with his life.”

  Mouse was quiet. She did not know what to say.

  “I—I am so sorry,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

  “No,” said Ulrich, the anger now fading from his expression just as quickly as it had appeared. “No, do not be.” He looked around the hallway as though he had suddenly become aware of his surroundings and cleared his throat, walking out into the open air of the terrace and casting a glance over his shoulder to see that Mouse was following him.

  After a few minutes of silence, he addressed her in a voice so low that Mouse was forced to close the distance between them if she hoped to make out his words.

  “When Osgar first surrendered himself,” Ulrich began, “he complained of pains in the head and stomach, which quickly progressed to vomiting and spasms. After that came the hallucinations, the ravings. The physician declared that these were symptoms of contamination, food spoilage, rotten grain or some such thing. But that is not the only thing that causes such symptoms.”

  Mouse’s eyes narrowed for a moment before widening in surprise.

  “You think he was poisoned?” she asked.

  “I have said no such thing,” Ulrich said quickly. “However, there is a plant called nightshade common among apothecaries that is sometimes used during certain medical procedures, but which can cause much the same symptoms as grain poisoning: pains in the stomach and head, vomiting, spasms, hallucinations, raving, and in higher doses, unconsciousness and death.”

  Mouse felt her heart drop into her stomach.

  “Nightshade, did you say?” She could feel the color drain from her face as she thought of the small glass vial that sat in the box on her table.

  The Captain murmured his assent.

  “That is what the Braques used to contaminate the Han’s water supply when they tried to invade by the Gheny,” he said.

  Mouse swallowed. She knew she must be careful in how she spoke next.

  “Do you think that—” she paused “—that contaminated grain might urge a man to confess to something which he did not do, perhaps under a false sense of conviction or through some other means of coercion? Do you think it would allow him to retain just enough lucidity to stand trial while stripping him of his ability to make arguments?”

  Ulrich, who had stopped to survey the bailey with hands clasped behind his back now turned to look at Mouse.

  “You know, I think that it might,” he said.