“Sir?” Malgiers went from frightened to perplexed without passing through any intervening steps.

“Poetry,” Bitterlich repeated. “Songs. Tall tales. Things that a new reader might actually be interested in. Education is important. An enthusiasm for learning is even more important.”

“Yes, sir.” Malgiers disappeared to collect his books. Much of the poetry would be too advanced for Rebecca, but the songs and the stories might at least hold her attention.

Bitterlich returned to the table and gestured to the tomes thereon. “You can put those away.”

Malgiers returned bearing a pair of books and looking very pleased with himself. “This is a book of stories I’ve had so long I just about wore it out. Before we left Rocher Royale I found this other collection with most of the same stories in it. We’ll be able to read side by side.” He sat down next to Rebecca and opened the book. “When I was young, my governess used to read to me, so that’s where we’ll start…”

Bitterlich observed the process for a few minutes. Fortunately, it didn’t take long for Rebecca to get drawn into a story about a rampaging giant and a forest witch.

If only Bitterlich could be so easily distracted.

CHAPTER

Eighteen

Le Comte de Travers’s ship Potencia was a galleon of the previous generation, bigger and bulkier than the Thunderclap, but less imposing than a ship of the line. Its sides were painted with a mural in the style of a liturgical procession: Saint Guyot le Sanguinaire, from whom the sorcery took its name, led an unbroken line of Sanguinaire saints from the Vault of Ages. The line of descendants, each in a different period costume, filed down through the eras of the broken world. They marched through the Bleaktimes, through the saintly city of Rüul and its destruction, through the age of conquest, the time of reckoning, and the era of discovery toward the figure of the Savior, portrayed as the scarlet silhouette of a man surrounded by a nimbus of white light and emblazoned with a golden omnioculus. Subtle it was not.

Jean-Claude sat shackled aboard a launch from the Dame Formue. Ivar stood in the gunwale, guiding the craft through the ethereal eddies alongside the larger vessel. The launch was captured by the Potencia’s boom, gently reeled in, and moored to her side. Several aeronauts hoisted Jean-Claude aboard and frog-marched him to the great cabin. Every chain-clanking step reminded Jean-Claude of his wounds and the rough stitches holding them together.

With Hasdrubal flown off with the ring, this was not the ship Jean-Claude wanted to be on. Yet the goat-faced bastard had to rendezvous with Travers eventually if le comte was supposed to get him through the Bittergale.