Vrain in the guise of a fleshmonger leaned over to whisper in Isabelle’s ear, “Capitaine, we owe these pirates nothing.”

Isabelle interlaced her fingers, being sure not to let her spark-hand pass though her skin hand, and pretended nothing was wrong. On top of everything else, she was all too aware that she now stood poised to make exactly the same sort Breaker’s bargain she had always railed against. The raid on Fishers Point and the attack on the Thunderclap both demanded justice for the dead. Yet Isabelle had no love of killing, no matter how well justified. It was always a victory for the Breaker.

Isabelle said, “Two things, for your life and the life of your crew. Thing one: all you know of the conspiracy that included your ill-considered attack on my ship, including the names of the other conspirators.” The smell of the slave market enfolded her, dust and the stink of sour sweat and the perfumes meant to cover it up. The market always boiled this time of year, and there was no water for bathing.

Similce considered Isabelle’s demand. “What is the second thing?”

“One thing at a time,” Isabelle said, ignoring the lurching of the crowd around her, the shouts of the auctioneer. It was not real.

“What guarantee do I have that you will keep your word?”

“My word is good enough for la Reine de Tonner; it should be good enough for you.” Alas that she was trading on debased coin, there. Sireen had trusted her with this mission, but Isabelle had not told her of her voices and visions. She had wanted to prove herself, and she had proven herself a fool.

Similce growled helplessly, but finally said, “I don’t know the Célestial witch’s name. The beast rider is called Hasdrubal.”

Isabelle rubbed at her neck. The slave’s words bothered her. She’d been so wrapped up in other worries that it hadn’t occurred to her that the hollowjacker must have been a Sanguinaire. This conspiracy had roots in the Célestial court as well as in Skaladin.

“What is Hasdrubal’s plan?” Isabelle said, a dullard’s question, but her fever had grown worse. Her whole skin felt baked and ready to blister. The dry air of the desert got under her collar, and sweat made mud of the grit on her face.

“They didn’t tell me their whole plan,” the slave said. “I was to bring my fleet to this place and wait for their signal to attack the town. The witch brought our orders. I sent one ship to fetch Hasdrubal and brought the Saint Asne to rescue any survivors from this ship, which I saw fall out of the sky. Rescuing wreck survivors is the law of the sky, yes?”