Trying not to think too hard about what he meant to do, Jean-Claude stumped up the outside stair to the poop deck, directly above the great cabin. Through the thick wood he could just make out Travers and Hasdrubal sitting down to supper with most of the other officers likewise invited. The edges of their silver plates and utensils stood out strongly in Jean-Claude’s clockwork vision, and the various Sanguinaires’ bloodshadows looked like red honey on diaphanous linen.

In a smaller cabin next door, Hasdrubal’s Skaladin retinue gathered around an alchemical stove, sharing several bottles of liquor amongst them.

Beyond that, in a cell that was barely more than a locker, sat Hailer Dok, chained to a wall. The gritty edges of the iron shackles glittered, and the air around Dok shimmered, as if the clockwork eye could see the ripples of his sorcery leaking out into the world.

The only door into Dok’s cell faced the Skaladin cabin, but it did have a window facing the gallery. All Jean-Claude had to do was go over the back of the ship on a rope, drop down onto the gallery without being noticed, and hope the window had hinges.

It was the first step that terrified him most. Even approaching the rail made him queasy, and looking over the side would undo him. L’appel du vide had never stayed its hand or granted him the slightest reprieve. It made him sick to his stomach and light in his head. It called him to let go and fall. This time he had a rope, a harness, and if he fell straight down he’d land on the damned gallery, but as he approached the rail his belly flopped and his lips went numb as if he was going to vomit.

Above him, aeronauts swung along slick frozen spars, knocking off ice sheets before they could snap the wood. Jean-Claude could barely bring himself to imagine the poor souls clambering amongst the turvy masts.

If they could do it, why couldn’t he? Why had the vertiginous urge of the deep sky always defeated him?

He eased astern, and the world seemed to bend around him, funneling him toward the fall. He closed his eyes and groped his way forward until his hands found the wooden rail.

He opened the clockwork eye and imagined he was seeing the world as he did when it was dark, only catching the edges of things. To his relief the eye complied, and the urge to fall receded slightly. He tied a knot that might not instantly fail if he put his weight on it.

“Hey, you!” shouted the boatswain, striding in his direction.

Fresh fear seized Jean-Claude. He must not be singled out. Recognition was death. He fumbled his ropes through the clasps on the harness. Was that bit supposed to go over or under the other bit?