“It’s complicated,” Isabelle retorted. She peered down the device’s neck, through a tangled mass of broken gears and fragmented complexity-matrix beads. It took her a moment to discern the reality of a device she had hitherto seen only in smuggled drawings by candlelight. There was the analogical multi-switch whirring away, and the cryodynamic manifold hissing softly. The actual algorithmic engine of the device seemed to be intact. All those delicate pieces; the explosion just hadn’t been that powerful.
She muttered, “So the simulacrascope went off with a bang that cracked the aetherfeed, but judging by the amount of ice that was deposited, most of the gas escaped after the fire was extinguished?” The damage could have been worse if Thornscar had allowed more gas to escape before he ignited it. Had Kantelvar’s interruption startled him into making a mistake, or had he just not known enough about simulacraspheres and aether? And how had he set it off without getting caught in the blast?
“That is … substantially correct,” Carlos said. “But how does … do you know so much about aetherscopes?”
Isabelle was recalled to her social obligation of ignorance. “Oh, I don’t know much, really, but when my family had naval officers in for dinner, I always did get stuck at the end of the table with the navigator and the keel master, and men do insist on talking about work.” It was a sad but useful fact that all but the most suspicious or perspicacious of men could blot out any memory of her intelligence if only she gave them permission.
A rap on the door frame drew her attention, and she turned to find Vincent standing there. He produced the requisite bow and said, “Highness.”
“Vincent,” she said warily.
“May I have a word?” he said, leading her from the chart room onto the deck, where they could be easily observed without being easily overheard, thanks to the wind.
Isabelle checked her posture and fixed a neutral expression on her face, preparing to be berated for some failing. “Yes?”
He bobbed his head, a calculated fraction of a bow. “Highness, it occurs to me that, in addition to sending your, ah, minion to dash about the ?le des Zephyrs in search of the saboteur’s conspirator, there is another well of information from which we might draw.”
“And what would that be?” she asked. She had no personal reason to dislike Vincent, but he was her father’s man—dangerous to her autonomy even when he defended her person. She had to assume every word she spoke to him would be relayed back to her father.
Vincent held out a hand, palm up, as if offering a gift. “Your bloodhollow.”
Isabelle was appalled. “Marie?”
Vincent nodded. “I am given to understand that bloodhollows see everything, hear everything, and remember what they witness with absolute clarity. They don’t have personalities to get in the way.”
A resentful frost formed around Isabelle’s heart. “I am aware of that.” The comte had often used Marie’s eidetic memory as a bludgeon against Isabelle.
“If this Thornscar or one of his accomplices crossed your path any time between your betrothal and your embarkation, if they were doing any reconnaissance, as they should have been, the bloodhollow may have seen them. If we were to question her, or better yet have your father sift her memory—”
“No,” Isabelle snapped.
“But she may have seen something without knowing it.”
“She sees everything without knowing it,” Isabelle said. Then she made a soothing gesture as if to soften the sharpness of her words. “I mean, you are right. She might have seen something. I will question her, but I will not involve the comte.”
Vincent looked perplexed. “It would be more efficient. Your father—”
“The comte is a monster,” Isabelle said. In her anger, words came more easily but were harder to control. “A murderer of children and a defiler of souls. Tell me if you can what crime a thirteen-year-old girl could possibly have committed to deserve being turned into a bloodhollow.”
Vincent took a step back from her in alarm, and Isabelle forced herself to dismount her tower of rage. He was not necessarily an evil man, and he was certainly no fool. There was no point in alienating him; quite the opposite.
“I know you work for the comte, not me, but he is dying, Breaker take him. Yet when he is dust, you will still need an employer, and I will be, at the very least, a princesa of Aragoth.” If she could winnow his loyalty away from her father, that would be an unprecedented victory.
“Do you not think that your husband will provide for your security?” Vincent asked.
Isabelle’s mouth worked around some mumbles as she fought to articulate the idea blooming in her mind. “I am certain that he will, but a royal woman needs someone under her command who is not beholden to anyone else, even her husband.” As much as she loathed the idea of setting someone else in Jean-Claude’s place, she must plan for the contingency and be well out in front of it.
Poor Príncipe Julio; he was supposed to be the most important thing on her mind right now, but instead he seemed to be receding into the background of her unfolding crisis.
“You have a very keen mind,” Vincent said. “It is too bad you were not born a man; you would make a wonderful officer.”
Irritation rose in Isabelle’s mind, but she stopped it from expressing itself anywhere but in a tightening around her eyes. Why was he baiting her? Was he really that much of a boor? No, he was feeling out a potential employer. She rallied her words again. “I am already malformed and unhallowed; being male is a handicap I can live without. Besides, I would much rather be in the business of appointing wonderful officers than be one.”
Vincent settled back, his expression still closed, and said, “You put an interesting offer on the table, but I cannot pick it up while I am still under contract.”
“It remains there for the time being,” Isabelle said. “But now I must speak with Marie.”
“I shall accompany you.”
Isabelle held up her hand to forestall him. “I thank you for the offer, but no. Interrogating a bloodhollow is not like interrogating a normal person. Extra care must be taken so as not to damage them.”
“But they have no feelings,” Vincent said.
“Precisely. It is much easier to injure someone who cannot feel pain than someone who can. Rest assured, though, I have a great deal of practice at this. Her memories are just piled up, twelve years of unsifted experience in layers like silt. And if you go tromping around in it, all you get is clouds of mud.”
“I still think I should—”
“No!” Isabelle railed against the automatic male assumption that anything she might do, they could do better, even if they had no experience with it whatsoever. Jean-Claude would never have doubted Isabelle’s assessment.
She scraped Vincent off and entered her cabin. Marie had been put to bed, kept warm against the high-altitude chill. Isabelle roused her and performed the ritual bruise checks, attended the bodily waste functions, directed the consumption of food. Could Marie be brought back to herself, guided out of the dark pit into which she’d been condemned all these years? Kantelvar … hadn’t promised success, but he claimed to have had success before, a greater miracle than anyone else had ever boasted.