Bitterlich finished his meal and found his lieutenant, a Sanguinaire named Malgiers, reading a book in the curtained-off alcove that counted as officers’ quarters for the marines. He was the fourth son of lesser gentry, a man with no prospects of social elevation and no outlet for whatever useful talents he might have developed, nobles being discouraged from meaningful work. His parents had purchased his commission in the hopes that he would make something of himself, or at least be cleansed of his poetic inclinations in the fires of battle. So far there had been little cleansing, though there had been more than a few sonnets, a handful of short stories, and at least one new sky chanty.

Malgiers was off duty and as out of uniform as one ever got on a warship, his white overcoat, waistcoat, and hat hung up on a hook.

He came to attention at Bitterlich’s approach. “Sir.”

Bitterlich returned the salute. “I understand we have taken some captives.”

Malgiers said, “Yes, sir. The Skaladin capitaine is being held belowdecks. I’ve posted two men to keep watch. We ended up with forty-three captives on the brig, including the wounded, and I have a squad there, keeping watch.”

“Has anyone questioned them yet?” Bitterlich asked.

“Vrain interrogated the capitaine. I don’t know that anyone has questioned the crew.”

“Do you know if Vrain learned anything about the Skaladin mission?”

“If he did, he didn’t tell me.”

Bitterlich cursed Vrain’s secretiveness. He didn’t want to step on the new capitaine’s tender toes, but Bitterlich’s job was to protect the ship and he couldn’t do that without good intelligence. Fortunately he had access to some of the best intelligence in the Risen Kingdoms.

Bitterlich said, “I need you to contact Comtesse Impervia in my name.” He absolutely hated using bloodhollows, but there was no practical alternative.

Malgiers turned green, and his voice carried a note of dread. “You mean the spymaster.”

At least Impervia hadn’t lost her frightful reputation as l’impératrice’s all-seeing shadow. “Yes. Tell her that I’m on Hasdrubal’s trail, and I need to know if she’s learned anything else about him since last we spoke.”

Malgiers’s expression betrayed the sort of dread that suggested a man being volunteered for a suicide mission; no one in their right mind just walked up to the wicked spymaster and asked her a question. It probably would have broken his mind to know that Bitterlich had witnessed Impervia grinning like a loon whilst playing peekaboo with her grandchildren.

“Yes. Sir,” Malgiers said, as if each monosyllable were made of poison.

Contacting Impervia would take some time. Bitterlich left Malgiers to it, donned his bat skin, and flew across to the brig. The repairs, now well under way, only served to highlight the vessel’s overall decrepitude.