Just behind him, clicking and clanking, came Quaestor Czensos, but not as Jean-Claude had seen him before. He bore a staff of quondam metal in his mechanical hand. It was as black and gritty as wrought iron, and the mere sight of it made Jean-Claude’s skull throb. Even more alarming, the symbols of his office had all been desecrated, his mantel torn and his omnioculus medallion punctured and blinded. He’d shaved his head and wore a crown of new tattoos, blasphemous symbols braided together in an embrace of the Breaker.

He’d become a Last Man, or more likely he’d been a mole, working within the Temple to guarantee its downfall. He must be in league with Hasdrubal, but where did that leave Ivar? Was he part of their scheme, or was he just hired help?

“Awake at last, Monsieur Jean-Claude,” said Ivar in a rumbling yet charming bass. “Welcome aboard Dame Formue.”

“Ivar.” Jean-Claude tried to sit, but a sharp pain in his face slapped him back down. He grunted and continued, “On behalf of l’Empire Céleste and her Majesty La Reine de Tonner, Sireen the First, I thank you for rescuing me from the deep sky. A substantial award awaits you for returning me to any imperial port of call.”

Ivar laughed. “Do you remember Puerto Mal Aterrizaje? Thirty years ago?”

“That’s not a Célestial port,” Jean-Claude pointed out.

“That’s where you cheated me out of a fortune, a crime for which no justice was ever procured. No restitution. No punishment. It was as if the Builder had forgotten his most faithful son.” Ivar put his hand on his chest. “But a long season brings a great harvest, or so they say, and now here you are, a dead man rescued from the gibbet by my own hand.”

“For which you will be richly rewarded,” Jean-Claude said.

Ivar’s grin grew so wide it was in danger of bisecting his head. “Oh, I’ll take my due, sure enough, not by some fickle reine’s charity.”

“Did I mention the reward was very large?” Jean-Claude said. “I’m sure l’impératrice can more than double what Czensos is paying you. Speaking of whom, bonjour, Quaestor. I see you lost a fight with an angry but artistic kraken. My condolences.”

“Save your prattle,” Czensos said. “You are alive now only because I have use for you.”

Jean-Claude found that oddly comforting; he could find many ways to make himself useful, and people who needed something were almost always willing to give something in return, even if it was trivial. The trick was to make trivial concessions add up.

To Ivar he said, “Is that true? He’s the capitaine of this tub now, to make decisions of life and death?”