“Faith doesn’t feed chickens, as my mother used to say,” Jean-Claude said. “The Builder made the world, but it’s up to us to live in it.”

“Not for much longer,” Czensos said, and took himself out.

Jean-Claude cast a questioning glance at Ivar. “And you go along with this madness?”

Ivar rubbed his cheek below his eye patch. “He’s not the first zealot I’ve ever shipped. He won’t be the last. The wonderful thing about them with the Builder on the brain is they don’t care much about money. A madman will always think you’re trying to cheat him, but a fanatic doesn’t care. He’ll give you everything he owns to get to the end of the world because he knows he’s not coming back.”

“But what if he’s right?” Jean-Claude asked. “What if he finds the Vault of Ages and opens it.”

“All the better,” Ivar said. “What would it be, save a broken old ruin, and who knows what treasures lie within, ripe for the taking.”

“Except that, from the sound of it, you’re going to be on this side of the Bittergale,” Jean-Claude pointed out.

“Haven’t you been paying attention?” Ivar asked. “There’s more money in selling people shovels than there is in digging for gold. I’ve got backers lined up looking for a path through the Bittergale. Once Travers shows me the way through, that’s gold in the sack. Of course, it’d save me a bit of trouble if you’d give me the keel splinter.”

“I don’t know where it is,” Jean-Claude said, a fact that distressed him mightily. “But what makes you think Travers will actually show you the way through the Bittergale?”

Ivar smiled, and his teeth looked like weathered gravestones. “You’ll see.”

CHAPTER

Fifteen

Night had pulled a heavy cloak over the sky, and the stars struggled to make themselves seen through a layer of high clouds. Bitterlich stood on the forecastle, scanning the sky ahead for hazards and picking at the tangle of his circumstances. He had not meant to acquire Rebecca as his apprentice. He had no experience with children, or with being a teacher, but she needed guidance that only he on this ship could give.

Yet at least that was something he could give. For Isabelle he could do nothing.

“Major,” said Lieutenant Malgiers, mounting the deck behind him.

Bitterlich received his salute. “Lieutenant.”

Malgiers, looking slightly stuffed, said, “Sir, I contacted Comtesse Impervia as you directed.”

This introduction should have been followed with a revelation of the information exchanged, but Malgiers wore an expression that spoke of a reluctance on the order of a three-day bowel blockage.

Bitterlich waited. Malgiers turned steadily more crimson.