“Consider the consequences and work backwards,” Isabelle said. “He kills the handlers and the Maze of Eyes suddenly looses all contact with its operations in Rocher Royale. Then very soon thereafter the whole Hoary Fleet starts charging toward the City of Gears. Our fleet believes it’s chasing a Skaladin spy with a stolen relic, but the tyrant doesn’t know that. All he sees is an enemy fleet winging its way toward his capital, and his spy handlers, the people who might have warned him, are all dead. To the tyrant, this looks like an invasion.”

With a sudden groan like he’d been punched in the gut, Malgiers doubled over. His olive complexion went even paler and his eyes bulged.

“Oh saints!” he said, his hand grasping at the air. His bloodshadow rippled and darkened as if a great shadow had passed over it. Then just as abruptly the shadow departed and he was left standing with his hands on his knees, sweating and looking bewildered.

“It’s gone,” he said. He looked up at Bitterlich and said, “Sir, my bloodhollow is gone. It felt like … I swear something took it, just ripped it away from me. I tried to hold on but it was too fast, like a falcon snatching away a rabbit from a snare.”

“That sounds like what happened to Sireen’s bloodhollow,” Isabelle said. “Someone hollowjacked it.”

Worry rumbled in Bitterlich’s mind like the thump of distant drums. “Unless we are to believe that Hasdrubal or his agent in Rocher Royale just now found out we have been communicating with Impervia by way of Malgiers’s bloodhollow, we must assume they’ve been listening to everything we’ve said. They now know that Isabelle is not dead or dying. She’s still in the game.”

“How did this become about me?” Isabelle asked. “I’m not l’Empire. Vrain has the Thunderclap.”

“Yes, and Vrain is a competent capitaine, a scion of the nobility, born and raised for duty, with honor to uphold and glory to win. Hasdrubal will play him like a fiddle. You, by way of contrast, have been known to upend entire kingdoms and change the course of successions to get your way.”

“A reputation I could happily live without,” Isabelle grumbled.

Bitterlich snorted. “So that’s what a blind spot looks like.”

Isabelle narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bitterlich decided that discretion was probably the better part of valor and redirected the conversation. “It means that we can no longer consider this place safe. I’d bet my stripes and spots word is even now being delivered to Commandant Turenne that you are awake and recovering, which means the recall letter will be on its way, along with whatever precautions he deems necessary to ensure compliance: an honor guard, for example.”