Someone had tried to kill her, and they’d been willing to burn down the whole ship to do it. She had known there would be an attempt … or attempts, but the actual experience left a cold knot in her breast that evinced no sign of thawing. It brought her back to the day on the docks all those years ago when the Iconates had tried to kill her, but those were only madmen, deranged by grief. This was more like what Father did in the Pit of Stains, cruel and calculating.
Could she live with such threats lurking always at her back? Did she have a choice? Jean-Claude had proved an able watchdog today, her very own hellhound as always, but le roi would soon recall him to l’Empire Céleste, and then who would protect her? Vincent had the comte’s interests at heart more than hers. As far as she could tell, Príncipe Julio considered her just one of any number n of potential brides, fully interchangeable, and where was the protection Kantelvar had promised?
For that matter, where was Kantelvar? And Marie? Both Jean-Claude and Vincent were at her side, but she’d seen no sign of her friend or the artifex. Before the fire, she’d sent Marie to fetch some wine, but Marie didn’t do well when she encountered something unexpected. She’d keep trying to carry out her orders no matter how stupid they were in her new context.
Isabelle found the captain, still covered in soot and smelling of smoke, on the quarterdeck bellowing orders to his crew. He whirled and regarded her with a look that reminded her horribly of a powder keg with a lit fuse. “Princesa. I am pleased you are safe, but now is not a good time for you to be on deck. Return to the cabin, por favor.”
His glare cowed Isabelle into silence and retreat, but Jean-Claude stepped forward. “Have you seen Artifex Kantelvar or Marie?”
“I don’t give a damn where the tinker-man or the bloodhollow is.” Santiago turned his back on them and resumed shouting at the crew. The four escort ships had formed up with the Santa Anna, and one of them was beginning the delicate negotiation of drawing alongside to offer aid.
Isabelle left the captain to work out his rage on other people and descended to the main deck. To Jean-Claude and Vincent, she asked, “Has the rest of the ship been searched for additional sabotage?”
Vincent said, “I have my men doing it now.”
“But would they recognize it if they saw it?” Jean-Claude asked.
Vincent glowered at him, but Isabelle said, “It’s a fair question. Your men aren’t sailors.” Coldhearted killers, yes. Aeronauts, no.
“I will press some sailors into service.” Vincent tipped his hat to her and shoved off.
“You two need to learn to cooperate,” Isabelle said.
Jean-Claude shrugged. “I like him just the way he is. He inspires me. Besides, the more your enemies are worried about getting around him, the less they will be worried about getting around me.”
Isabelle frowned; she disliked social friction as much as Jean-Claude reveled in it, but that was not her primary concern at the moment. She had to find Marie. Had she run afoul of the saboteur? Please let her be safe.
She returned to her cabin. Jean-Claude stepped forward to open the door for her. A pain-filled groan came from within. She pushed quickly inside, fearing she would find someone dying. The room was a mess. The door to the chart room had been blown off the hinges, and everything that wasn’t covered in soot was waterlogged from flying through the rain cloud. The door and a sky chest that had pulled loose from its moorings had slid into one corner, pinning Kantelvar there.
Jean-Claude hauled the crate and the door off him and helped him to his feet. His saffron robes were scorched and sodden, and what little exposed flesh he had was grayer than normal and goose pimpled.
“Are you injured?” Isabelle asked.
“What happened?” Jean-Claude added.
Kantelvar retrieved his staff and leaned heavily on it. His voice wheezed like a depressurized pipe organ. “I was attacked. I suffered a bruised forehead and injured pride. Both will recover. Was … did you capture him?”
“No,” Jean-Claude said. “He was a Glasswalker. I caught him trying to leave through a mirror in the hold. I had him by the arm, but Vincent bravely shot the mirror.”
“What happens when a mirror is destroyed while an espejismo is passing through it?” Isabelle asked. The Aragothic artifex ought to know how Glasswalker sorcery worked.
Kantelvar asked, “Was he in the mirror when it was shot?”
“Three-quarters of the way through,” Jean-Claude said. “All but his arm.”
Kantelvar swayed on his feet and his voice whined like an overtaxed axle. “It is very likely … he is most likely dead or lost between mirrors. Unless he has a strong anchor on the other side, he may not find his way out again, which is worse than dying, or so I am made to understand.” He slumped down on a sky chest. Bruised pride indeed.
Isabelle said, “We can’t assume he’s dead. At worst, he is lost for how long?”
“It … depends on how organized his mind is.”
“I left him with a dagger wound through his arm,” Jean-Claude said helpfully.
“In that case, probably not very organized,” Kantelvar allowed. “Assuming he is not dead, could you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“With that scar on his face he’d be hard to miss,” Jean-Claude said. “Didn’t you get a look at him?”
“Yes,” Kantelvar said. “But there might have been more than one intruder.”
“What exactly happened?” Isabelle asked.
“I went into the chart room to check our progress in the orrery, but someone had opened a valve in the simulacrasphere. The room was frigid, and there was frost on the walls. I rushed over to close the valve, but I heard someone behind me. I turned and saw his fist coming down. That is the last thing I remember.” Kantelvar rubbed at his temple. “He must have ignited the aether, trying to burn the ship out from under us … that is, from under you, Highness.”
Isabelle said, “A ship catching fire and falling into the Gloom doesn’t leave any evidence that can point back to anyone, but thanks to a whole lot of very quick thinking, it didn’t work, and now we know what the assassin looks like.”
“Oh, better than that,” Kantelvar said, “I know who he is … or was. He calls himself Thornscar: a nom de guerre, I’m sure. He’s an anarchist, but he’ll work for anyone who he thinks will help bring down the rightful king. I imagine he was the one who murdered Lady Sonya. I wouldn’t count him dead until I saw the body. Perhaps not even then. Stubborn.”
“I’ve never heard of him before,” said Jean-Claude.
“He’s a local problem,” Kantelvar said. “His complaint is against Aragoth’s royalty, and he is extremely persistent and unpredictable. If he lives, he will try again, unless I stop him.” He lurched up and stumped to the exit.
“Where are you going?” Isabelle asked.
“I must go … I will take one of the escort ships and precede you to San Augustus. If he’s not dead, he’s wounded. It’s an opportunity. I need to find him before he recovers.”
Isabelle only just refrained from putting a hand on his shoulder. She almost asked if he was fit to travel, but they were already traveling, and he would be moving from a damaged ship to an undamaged one, a move Isabelle herself would consider once an assessment of the injury to the Santa Anna was complete.