Djordji appeared from the same alley down which Isabelle had come, walking casually as if nothing was amiss. Isabelle scanned the sky for Rebecca.

The alarm bell sounded again, a frantic arrhythmic bonging as if the rope were being pulled by an irate gorilla.

Out on the review stand stood Commandant Turenne, shouting at the backs of stragglers leaving the square. Isabelle could not make out his words, but his outrage rang through.

“That’s done it,” Marie said in her ghostly voice.

Isabelle turned to the crew. “All hands to your stations. Prepare to loft!”

The stevedores aboard tossed their final loads in a pile and made for the gangways. Djordji, who had been raised on a clan balloon, hopped the gap between dock and ship and monkey-climbed the deadeyes as if that were the standard method of boarding. Malgiers bolted from the warehouse directly opposite the ship, running for the gangway as if the Breaker’s Torments nipped his heels.

“Go, go, go!” he shouted.

A squad of base marines erupted from the warehouse doors behind him. At their head ran a Sanguinaire lieutenant with a battle lantern who set his bloodshadow flying after Malgiers.

Malgiers stumbled, his bloodshadow tangling with the marine’s. Isabelle turned to Marie and her triple brace of pistols. “Can you hit that Sanguinaire from here?”

“A long gun would be better,” Marie said, but drew her pistols.

With a whoosh and a flash, a great serpent swooped from the sky and spat a bright sheet of blue-and-green flame at the marines, who shrieked and leapt back. The fire lit the Sanguinaire’s bloodshadow as if it were made of oil. He howled and fell, rolling back and forth to try to put it out.

“Good girl, Rebecca,” Marie said.

Malgiers regained his feet and sprinted for the ship. Rebecca slithered skyward. The marines broke formation in confusion, some aiming muskets at Rebecca, but the flaming metal barrels of the front rank’s weapons turned ghostly and fell right through their wooden stocks to clatter on the cobblestones. The sergeant bellowed at the rest. They leveled muskets at Malgiers and pulled triggers.

A great dark shape bore Malgiers to the ground. It resolved into a creature that looked like a cross between a bear and a turtle: Bitterlich. The muskets barked. Bullets thudded into the brig’s wooden stays and rattled off the stone pier. Several musket balls ricocheted off Bitterlich’s chimera, who then hoisted Malgiers and galloped toward the ship, becoming longer and leaner until he vaulted clean over the rail and landed as a mountain cat, dropping the stunned lieutenant on the deck.

“Saints preserve,” Malgiers gasped.

Similce erupted from belowdecks and yelled in Skaladin, “Cast off!”

With a great lurch, the brig came away from the dock. Slowly, ever so slowly, the ship drifted away from the shore, wafted outward by warmer air rising along the skyland’s turvy face and welling up into the cooling night.