Jean-Claude laughed. “Ha! I’m no mangy dog to carry off your fleas. The relic was not my responsibility to keep. I’m only interested in the thief, not the bauble. If you want your worthless-yet-valuable trinket back, you’d be best served by lending your assistance to l’Empire in catching him.”

“If l’Empire wishes to aid in capturing this Skaladin spy, l’Empire can begin by telling me his name.”

Jean-Claude considered telling Czensos to go chase a falling rock, but even if he was of little direct use to Jean-Claude’s pursuit, he might still make Hasdrubal’s life more difficult, which was an indirect benefit.

“The thief’s name is Hasdrubal,” Jean-Claude said.

Czensos frowned. “A beast-man with the form of a black goat?”

“Not bad for a first guess,” Jean-Claude said. How did Czensos know him?

“Then you are lucky to have survived the encounter. The black goat is a sanctified thrall from the Maze of Eyes. He is the tyrant’s personal assassin and spy. I know you will not take my advice, but I am compelled by duty and conscience to warn you not to pursue this villain. You are not a match for him. The Temple will deal with him. Builder keep.”

“So you’re saying the Temple does not intend to coordinate with l’Empire in this matter?” Jean-Claude asked.

Czensos walked away without another word.

Jean-Claude watched the noxious little stoat out the door before stirring himself to look for Marie. It made sense that having failed in his bid to install a puppet on l’Empire’s throne, Hasdrubal would like to have some secondary prize to bring home to his master by way of apology, but “I will undo all the Breaker has wrought,” sounded rather more ambitious than a man running back to his master with his tail between his legs.

In all likelihood Jean-Claude would never find out what Hasdrubal meant by his enigmatic proclamation. Isabelle’s ship would sail on the morrow and he’d have to turn this investigation over to Comtesse Impervia and her other agents. He did not want to think about the report he had to give her. Debacle did not begin to describe it. He’d managed to let Hasdrubal slip away, lost a true reliquary before he even knew he had it, and let a temple burn down. Impervia would march straight past disappointment and directly into sarcasm. Not the way he wanted to say goodbye.

Rebecca returned with a cup of hot cider. “Marie says you’re to drink this.”

“Merci,” Jean-Claude said. He took the cup and considered the child, the orphan, the budding artist of misdirection and prestidigitation before him. Impervia would certainly take her in, train her to be an unstoppable thief, but children needed more than training. She wasn’t a tool.