“I am a fellhand. If I can’t win twelve duels, I don’t deserve the title,” Marie said.

“Are not the other champions also likely to be fellhands?” Isabelle asked.

“Yes, and most of them were trained by Jackhand Djordji, and he’s trained me to beat them.” She presented the bracelet to Isabelle. “I need you to hold this for me. Anything I wear for any period of time turns white, and that would spoil the effect.”

Isabelle received the bracelet as if it were as delicate as a flower petal, but with all the weight of a ship’s gun. “I will keep it safe.”

“Boy,” Djordji whispered. His eyes were only half open. “Major.”

Bitterlich had not expected to be called on. He knelt beside the cot. “Monsieur.”

“I remembers.” His breath was as thin as the edge of a knife. “When he sends me to fetch you … Leon … He says … make sure the Temple doesn’t get you … Don’t know why.”

“Thank you,” Bitterlich said, though he had no way to make that fit with what he remembered of his boyhood rescue. The Temple was usually very good at granting sanctuary to saintblooded orphans, and delivering them to relatives or other sponsors. Bitterlich didn’t recall seeing any Temple folk during his flight, but then he’d been eight, and there was a lot he didn’t remember.

Djordji’s pipe fell from his hand. He still breathed, but his fever burned hot enough to feel from a foot away.

Bitterlich picked up the pipe, extinguished it, and tapped out the bowl before placing it back in the small trove of things Djordji had chosen for the last leg of his journey. His dragonweed, his flask, his weapons, hat and long coat, a few talismans and mementos whose story he would take with him through the Ravenous Gate.

“Marie,” Djordji whispered. His eyes did not open this time.

“Yes, Father,” Marie said. Her voice was always flat and devoid of affect, but she knelt by the cot and clutched his hand.

“Remember to breathe,” he said, and Bitterlich felt the life go out of him, his last breath rising like mist off green fields on a summer’s morning. When his chest fell back, what lay there was no longer a man, but a memory.

Marie could not cry, but she lay across Djordji’s chest and hugged him tight.

Isabelle knelt, placed her arm round Marie’s shoulders, and wept for both of them.

CHAPTER

Twenty-Three

Night moved toward its darkest nadir. Jean-Claude had received no response from Ivar, but there was no way to tell if that was because he was unwilling to reply or unable to reply.