He dared not light a lantern to guide his work, but as dark as it was, his left eye seemed to pick up the edges of things. The chests and the locks and even his pick were backlit like the horizon just after the Solar had disappeared for the evening. He prodded his eye, but discovered only the raised tender flesh of a stitched-up wound. He’d heard of men who’d come to see ghosts or auras around people after they’d been hit in the head. This phantom lacework limning of objects must be akin to that.

The locks seemed to have been built to deter casual pilferers rather than determined burglars, for the tumblers yielded quickly. The door opened to display racks of files, bits, rasps, and chisels. Jean-Claude grabbed a knife-size chisel and a hammer.

The ship’s bell sounded. The boatswain’s whistle signaled all hands on deck.

Jean-Claude’s pulse thundered in fear. Had the murdered aeronaut been discovered? The first thing they would do if they found a dead man and a prisoner missing was account for everyone onboard.

He peered into the passageway in time to see the Sanguinaires leave the surgeon’s bay and head for the ladders, their clayborn escorts in tow.

“Prepare to receive visitors,” shouted someone on the deck above.

Nostrils, leaning on his cane, glanced up at the ceiling and said, “It’s a mistake to deal with the Skaladin. Every word is a lie.”

“It doesn’t matter what he says as long as he brings us the Windcaller and the relic,” said the other officer, dropping Jean-Claude’s pouch in his jacket pocket as he climbed. “When the moment is right, we’ll be rid of him, too.”

Jean-Claude’s mind reeled. Was Hasdrubal bringing Hailer Dok here? Could Jean-Claude somehow steal Dok back from them?

Jean-Claude tucked his tools into his belt and climbed after the clayborn escort, just like any other aeronaut responding to orders. He ascended the ladder. His old legs didn’t like the climb, not with the rest of him wounded. His lungs felt like they were working for nothing. Had the ship risen into thinner air? It could happen if they were trying to leap over a storm.

On the gun deck, the Sanguinaires were forced to pause by the press of aeronauts on the companionway ahead of them. The clayborn jostled, trying to clear room for the officers.

Sphincter tightly puckered, Jean-Claude stumbled forward, bumbling into one escort, who bumped into the other. They both scowled at Jean-Claude, who turned to duck his head and tip his hat by way of apology. His hand dipped for the officer’s pocket.