Ivar scowled, and his various time shadows flickered around his face as he tried out different statements and possible responses. It made Jean-Claude’s skin crawl to think that Ivar could interrogate a dozen versions of him and then follow the line of inquiry that seemed most fruitful. It was like playing thwarts with a marked deck and a loyal dealer.

“Monsieur Czensos paid for a fishing trip, and you’re the fish. What he catches is up to him to keep or throw away, but even a kept fish gets gutted.”

Jean-Claude said, “So no revenge for you unless he says so.”

Czensos said, “Rest assured, Capitaine, that if this man’s suffering pleases you, le Comte Travers shall provide it in buckets. The Old Hand was part of Thunderclap’s inner circle, and le Comte Travers will skin him and scrape his hide to find out what he knew about their mission.”

Jean-Claude knew Travers’s name. They were an old family, rich in history and undiluted wealth. Members of a purity cult, they only sowed their seed in the family fields. Thus they counted amongst their numbers some of the weakest chins, most twisted limbs, daftest madmen, and most fragile constitutions in all the Risen Kingdoms.

The last thing Jean-Claude wanted was to be handed over in secret to a demented Sanguinaire who considered himself superior to all persons whose family trees had more than one branch.

Jean-Claude said, “Strange that you would ally yourself with Travers and his sister-humping ilk. The whole point of their project is the notion that the Savior will choose one of them as his vessel, whereas the Last Men preach the Savior is already dead.”

“We didn’t recruit him for his theological opinions,” Czensos said, “but for his ships. The Bittergale will not yield without a struggle.”

“So you need him, but what does he need you for?” Jean-Claude asked.

“He badly wants an introduction to the Savior, which is why he’ll gladly dismantle you to find the Conquest’s keel shard.”

“I don’t have it,” Jean-Claude said honestly.

Czensos said, “Then he will find that out, along with every other secret you hold dear.”

“And after that, the Vault of Ages,” Jean-Claude said. “To undo all the Breaker wrought.”

Czensos clasped his flesh hand around his headache-inducing staff, ever so casually displaying Saint Cynessus’s ring in the process. “This broken world was born when Saint Iav betrayed the Builder and let the Breaker in. It has only become more vile and wicked with every passing generation as she weaves herself into every thought, every action, every dream. We live in a wretched age. There is nothing left but scraps of the Builder’s designs. We must cast the Breaker out now, before the last light of reason fades, or consign the world to darkness everlasting. If you were truly a man of faith, you would understand that.”