“Get down to port side abaft the mainmast, clear the ice dam!” the boatswain yelled.

Jean-Claude’s first instinct was to bluff, but he could not press words into his throat, much less out his mouth. The black snake poisoned his mind and tied his tongue in a knot.

Desperate, he spun, gave a salute sharp enough to split wood, and pressed his hood down to cover the mechanical eye. He made a show of recovering his rope. The boatswain turned to harangue someone else.

Jean-Claude squeezed his eyes shut and, giving himself no time to think, hauled himself up and over the rail. His toes scrabbled for purchase. His weight hit the harness and it held. He played out his line, opened his clockwork eye, and rappelled onto the gallery. His heart beat so fast that it seemed to buzz in his chest. He pressed himself into a corner out of sight of the officers’ partition and forced himself to breathe slowly until he could stand without the wall to brace on. He’d faced cannon fire, royal displeasure, and Impervia’s wrath with less reaction.

As soon as he could make his hands work, he turned his attention to the window. Jean-Claude deployed his knife and worked it between the window frame and the jamb, cracking ice until he found the latch—a simple one, thank the Builder—and slowly worked the stubborn thing free.

The process was not silent, but the howl of the wind gave him cover. He chipped away the ice all the way around the frame before pulling the window open. None of the Skaladin in the next cabin showed any inclination to barge in, but someone had to come in at least occasionally to feed and water their prisoner, especially given that they needed him at full strength to try the Bittergale. If they came in and found Jean-Claude, he was dead and all this work for naught.

Dok, chained to the wall like a dog, huddled under several layers of blankets. His face was encased in a leather mask that covered eyes, mouth, and ears. Only by the vortex that circled and the visible bits of his clan motley could Jean-Claude even be sure this was him.

He clambered in through the window and shut it behind him, but the Windcaller shrank away as he drew near.

Jean-Claude wished he could whisper some reassurances, but his tongue remained a dead eel in his throat. Instead, he captured Dok’s head and unbuckled the mask as swiftly as possible. The leather case came away with a sucking sensation and a cloud of dank reek.