Jean-Claude’s heart felt like it imploded, leaving a gaping hole in his chest that no suture could close. Isabelle had fallen into the Gloom.

“Damned thing was that it fell right back up again. Popped up like a cork in water. Never seen the like.”

Jean-Claude breathed again. His rigid muscles all relaxed, and he could have kissed the surgeon for all his ham-handed prodding. If the Thunderclap survived, Isabelle lived, and Marie and Rebecca. With their lives came hope and a calm that did more to ease his aches than a whole tub of poppy milk.

Moreover, this news allowed his mind to unclench and focus on other things. He had been stripped to the skin, so the key was gone, as was the Conquest shard. But what had happened to Hailer Dok? Without him, the mission could not penetrate the Bittergale.

“When I fell,” Jean-Claude said, “what happened to the launch?”

“No idea,” the surgeon said.

Jean-Claude’s humors roiled and he felt sick to his gut. Hasdrubal had escaped with Dok, the only man who knew the way through the Bittergale.

The surgeon said, “Give it another day. If you haven’t gone septic by then, you’ll probably live.”

“I need to speak to the capitaine,” Jean-Claude said. He must recover the key and the shard and find a way to retrieve Dok.

The surgeon grunted, leaned out the door, and shouted, “Hey, Cap’n. Your meat sack woke up and learned to talk.”

The surgeon stepped aside and Ivar Thirdeye arrived by stages. Like a brazier aflame with colorless fire, Ivar sent off flickering alternate images of himself in all directions. In some he strode through the open doorway, in others he paused on the threshold, in others he had more swagger or dignity. Each image lasted only the blink of an eye before vanishing without smoke or spark. Each flicker represented an alternate possibility, a path not chosen, for such was the power of Tidsskygge sorcery. They could see many possible futures stretching out before them and pick the one that suited their needs. Most could prophesy only a few seconds into the future, but the best could push their foresight out to a minute or so. Between that and the ability to dam up or unleash the flow of time to their benefit, they were the slipperiest of sorcerers.

This particular Tidsskygge was broad and square, as if he’d been raised to adulthood inside a shipping crate. He wore a fine leather long coat decorated with stitched-in scenes of hunting and fighting. He’d also acquired an eye patch somewhere along the way. A smuggler, mercenary, and an all-around scoundrel, he was wanted by half the Risen Kingdoms on any given day and employed by the other half on any given night.