Isabelle kept walking, Djordji and Bull Neck exchanged words, too distant and distorted for Isabelle to hear.

Bitterlich had no such trouble. His expression became very fixed, his whiskers twitching forward and a strangled snigger echoing out through his nose.

“What’d he say?” Isabelle asked.

They reached the far corner, and Bitterlich gave a snort that was nearly a sneeze. “Oh saints. That was the commandant, he was just asking Djordji why he’d sounded the alarm, and Djordji said, ‘I checks the logs, and I sees its a dog’s age afore this place has a proper fire drill.’”

Isabelle’s mouth fell open in astonishment. “He’s mad.” Sounding a false alarm without the base commander’s permission would get anyone else whipped, but Turenne was hoping for Djordji’s help in promoting his career, and was likely to be given all the leeway he could ask for.

Jean-Claude had once said, An Old Hand’s power is based on the “because they can get away with it” principle.

Grateful for this spanner in the enemy’s gears, Isabelle and her crew hurried to the end of the row, where it gave out onto the dock. Stevedores carrying heavy bundles hurried back and forth along the pier at which the Skaladin brig was tied, and a crane swung slowly outward with a huge pallet of goods while Bitterlich’s marines stood guard.

Whose doing was this? Isabelle was amazed with her friends’ ingenuity and efficiency. And they were doing this for her, not for any greater purpose. She didn’t even have a grand goal toward which she could lead them. She hoped to locate Jean-Claude somewhere in the vast sky, but then what? She did not have the resources to make a play for the Craton Auroborea. She was in no position to hunt down Hasdrubal.

Part of her wanted to dig in her heels and yell, “Stop!” There was no reason for them all to make themselves criminals and outcasts. But there was another part of her, so quiet and eager, that wanted nothing more than to grab the west wind by its tail and see how far it would take her.

Which if any of these thoughts were her own? It would be easy for one of her past selves to slip an unsolicited urge into her head, especially in moments of confusion when she had the least time to stop and think about it.

She hurried up the gangway. Marie stepped out from behind a pile of crates. She glowed in the gathering light like a spirit of the moon. “Welcome aboard, Capitaine.”

“I am the capitaine of this ship,” Similce said in la Langue. “The deal was that I am to transport you to a neutral port.”

“And then I give you your ship back, with all goodwill,” Isabelle said. “Until then I am capitaine and you are my lieutenant.”