The bustle of the crowd silenced. Conversations were sharply halted. Heads and eyes lifted. Windows were opened. Taverns were stilled. No one made a sound, not even children. The air itself stilled as the horn’s call filled the silence. The wind carried it from one end of the city to the other.

  Masons set down their tools. Vendors hushed their patrons. Men-at-arms set down their cards and turned. Ears tipped. The horn beckoned with a tune that few had heard, yet all knew.

  Baron’s Men eyed the Monastic Knights in their groups. Monastic Knights listened, frozen for a moment, then silently began to gather their belongings. Some were already in the barracks. The ones who weren’t, sprinted to get there. Those who were merely Baron’s Men remained where they stood, gaping at the sudden change in their fellows. A few called questions. None of them were answered. The horn was calling.

  Inside the barracks, the clerics were in a rush through the halls, donning their chainmail shirts and helmets between paces. Monastic Knight Captains were handing out bits of armor and sharp-tipped halberds to their ilk as they filed by in lines of mismatched leather jerkins and quilted coats. The Paladin stiffened in the training room and cocked her ear to the air.

  “You hear that?” Cleric Marion slid to a stop in the opening to the hallway. “The Divine Rally!”

  Enya pulled her padded helmet off and tossed it to the table. She smiled as she pulled her gloves off. “About time.”

  Down in the crypt, Paladins Portis and Tilly exchanged glances from either side of the First Paladin’s Sword.

  “That can’t be right can it?” Tilly turned to put an ear to the damp stone wall. “I think…I think it’s…”

  Portis looked up and to the side as he listened. He nodded, stepping away from the wall with a finger pointing to the ground while his eyes remained looking high, “I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what it sounds like.”

  Their gaping gazes met as they both said at once, “The Divine Rally!” They both cheered with excitement, Tilly’s nearly to the point of a squeal.

  “No.” Portis shook his head in disappointment.

  “What?”

  “Too much.”

  “Awe, come on,” Tilly pleaded. “This is a once in a…you know that’s the…” Quietly, to himself, “Prick.”

  “What’s that?” Portis turned to him.

  “Nothing, I didn’t hear anything. I think a mouse might have been nibbling somewhere.” Tilly rocked on his heels a few times. “Prick.”

  “What?” Portis turned to him again.

  Tilly hummed in answer.

  “I could have sworn you said something just now. Maybe you could speak a little bit louder so the rest of the class can hear,” Portis trailed off into a mocking whisper.

  “Oh, sorry,” Tilly rocked on his heels, “I said that there might be a mouse…nibbling…somewhere in that nasty month old unlaundered coat of yours.”

  Portis bit his lip, “I had it washed last Wednesday.”

  “Then I called you a prick.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Portis began to remove his gloves after leaning the halberd against the wall.

  Tilly rocked on his heels, grinning. “Twice.”

  Beneath her hood, in the shadow of an alleyway between a tavern and a brothel, Nina looked up. She shook her head.

  “Pallies,” she said under her breath as she made her way deeper into the alley, “Always have to be so dramatic. At least he got the point this time.” And she disappeared into the deep of another shadow. Shadows within shadows. When she emerges, she will be precisely where she wants to be.

  For some, hearing that call means going to battle with sword and shield. For her, it meant going with careful whispers and sharp daggers. Tonight will be one eventful night. As per usual, her Prince has a knack for narrowing timelines.

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  “What is that?” Clarissa called from the balcony. “I think it’s coming from the Cathedral. But that can’t be, can it? That’s a war horn or something.”

  Baron Christophe sucked in a breath through his nose to stop the want to cry out. His fingernails dug into the arms of his chair to stop their shaking. He couldn’t stop his knees from bouncing, even if he tried. He listened to the tune. Divine Rally. He had only heard it once before…while training with the Monastics. Gerard insisted. Plowing Gerard. Where does his loyalty lie, Christophe wondered. With him or the Grande Prince? He’ll find out soon enough. If he can get word out before…

  “My Lord Baron,” one of his other captains, Felix, rushed through the door with an even more hurried bow. “The Paladinate has…well, they’ve…”

  “Out with it,” Christophe turned his glare to the man.

  “Is it something to do with all that ruckus?” Clarissa came in with her hands held in the air as if she were guiding the floating drift of the clouds of her petticoat.

  The man gulped between heaving for air. He had been running across half the city. He drew in a labored breath, “They have closed the gates to the city and barri—c—c—caded the canals. The Monastic Knights are wearing the Monastic colors and following orders from clerics.”

  “That can’t be good,” Clarissa said with a sideways glance and a plop on a sofa.

  “All of them.” Felix looked hard into Christophe’s glare.

  “Is that a lot?” Clarissa tilted her head like a puppy at him.

  Christophe raised a hand before the man said. He leaned forward, pressing his elbows into his knees to wring his hands in front of his face. “Have they mentioned any reason?”

  “Well, the Divine…”

  “…Rally. Yes, I know. Did they mention why the city is being closed off because of it?”

  “They…they say it’s a precaution.”

  “Precaution.” Christophed nodded, his eyes staring into nothing. He wrung his hands. He scratched his whiskered neck. “Are our men allowed to go as they please?”

  “No one can. Not without the authority of the Grande Prince or a Paladin.”

  Christophe’s eyes regained focus as he leapt to his feet in a roar, “I am the authority of the Grande Prince! You tell those Monastic thugs to get back in uniform and get back to work! And open those bloody gates.”

  Christophe turned from him, whispering to himself as he looked to the horn’s call, “Well played, Draka, well played.” He turned to find Felix was still standing there, “Why are you still here? I gave you my orders, go.”

  Felix bowed nervously with a backstep. “And if they don’t, what do I d—d—d—do then?”

  Christophe looked over his shoulder. He wanted to say it, but he knew how foolish it would be. There was no question in his mind how stupid it would be to openly fight a rallied Paladinate garrison. The losses would be insurmountable. It would break his army, what little he had left of one without the Monastic Knights filling the ranks. “Then take role of the deserters and report them to the Bailiff.”

  “But they’re not…”

  “Their families live in my city,” Christophe charged at him. “Maybe remind them of that little fact. And you!” Christophe pointed at the young boy who had let Felix in. “What are you doing here? Where’s Valmond and Vera?”

  “Valmond resigned and Vera’s off, sir,” the boy stood stiff as a board.

  “I told you, you should have just hanged her and be done with it,” Clarissa shifted to tuck her feet under her petticoat while she began picking through the fruit bowl in front of her. She put a grape in her mouth and said between chews, “I told you to make an example of her that night, but you had to play with your toys. Looks like this one is playing back.”

  Christophe waved for Felix to get out. Once the man left, Christophe stomped to in front of her, throwing himself nearly into her face as he sneered at her, “I’m trying to keep our station Legitimate! I can’t do that if I let you hang everyone who snags a knot in your hair or tries on one of your dresses. I had to have a reason!”

  “And you got one,” Clarissa shrugged at him, cautiously looking away as she continued searching for another grape. “I don’t see why you waited. You could have had her killed right then and there and both of us would have been happy and this whole thing would have never happened. Now he has your monasteries blocking canals.”

  Christophe stood back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Mo-nastic,” He over-emphasized the pronunciation. “Monastic Knights. The best trained men the world has to offer without all the religious crap clouding their judgment or the pay. They—unlike our Prince—are still MEN!”

  “Oh, speaking of the Prince,” Clarissa popped another grape into her mouth. “Did he say if he will be joining us for dinner? I had them roast mutton—heard it’s a delicacy in the villages—and Lisbeth plans to be there. We can finally introduce them.” She began shifting through the fruit again. “I think they’ll get along famously.”

  Christophe blinked at her, nodded, blinked some more, then shook his head. “No, I don’t believe he said anything about his dinner plans, last we spoke.”

  “Oh, well, you should be better about that. If you want to steal a man’s fortune, you must wine and dine him first,” Clarissa fluttered her eyes at him as she took a bite of a strawberry.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Christophe sat back in his chair. “I should see if he wishes to join us for dinner.”

  “No funny business, he and Lisbeth need to get along,” Clarissa tucked her chin at him. “I want my daughter to be a Princess.”

  “Exactly,” Christophe smiled.