He kissed the back of her hand in the manner of a formal courtship, and noted that her gray scales were warming into a rich purple with pink highlights. The finished effect was likely to be stunning.

She took back possession of her hand and he adjusted his cravat. Both of them, he suspected, were looking for an excuse to prolong the encounter.

There came a rap at the door. It was Malgiers, who seemed destined to intrude upon their privacy. At least this time they were upright, fully clothed, and breathing normally.

Malgiers’s expression was dour. “Sirs, Monsieur Djordji is asking for you. The surgeon says you should come.”

Bitterlich’s heart dipped at his dire tone. He assumed his place at Isabelle’s side and accompanied her to the surgeon’s bay.

The bay itself was crowded. Djordji lay on a cot, his skin ghostly gray. The dressing on his wound seeped yellow. The stink of the wound reached down Bitterlich’s throat and tried to choke him.

Marie sat by the bedside. Around her stood several off-duty marines. Rebecca had woken up, and even Similce was there.

The surgeon was talking low and fast to Similce in the Skaladin tongue. At the sight of Isabelle, Similce gestured her over.

The surgeon switched to la Langue and said, “Mistress, I—”

“Capitaine,” Isabelle said, firmly but without malice.

The surgeon glanced at Similce, who scowled, but nodded.

“Capitaine,” he said. “I’ve done all that’s possible, but the Célestials took my supplies. I have no wound powder, no sepsis formula, nothing stronger than willow extract for the pain.”

“I understand,” Isabelle said. “Thank you for your efforts. How fare the other wounded?”

The surgeon looked as if this was an unexpected question. “One man lost a hand. Everyone else is back on duty.”

“I’ll visit the amputee later,” Isabelle said. “I know what it’s like to lose an arm.”

“Capitaine,” Djordji whispered from the cot. “A word.”

Isabelle approached him. Bitterlich noted Similce and the surgeon watching her, weighing her worth as a new leader against the standards of their own.

“Help me sit,” Djordji said to Marie. She propped him up and loaded a pipe, which he drew on weakly. For all that it was poison, the dragonweed brought some color back to his face.

“What would you say to me, Monsieur Djordji?” Isabelle asked.

Djordji looked up at her. “You looks like a cast-off monk.”

“It’s a bad habit I got into,” she said, and he made a noise that was half laugh, half cough.

“I never knows defeat in battle until now. It humbles me.”

Isabelle said, “That would be a shame. I would rather see you celebrated.”

He coughed black flecks into his hand. “Remember that after I tells you about Flotsam.”

Djordji took another draw at his pipe. It was hard to tell if he was lost in thought or merely nursing his strength.