One the far side of the skyland, three pirates disembarked. There was a bulky man with a bronze beard, a leather long coat, and a patch over his left eye. He was a Tidsskygge sorcerer surrounded by half-glimpsed images of himself. The most solid part of him flickered from time shadow to time shadow, like a candle flame jumping between wicks. That would be Ivar Thirdeye: pirate, scoundrel, and capitaine of the Dame Formue.

His first companion Isabelle recognized by reputation if not by sight. Sedgwick the Goldentongue, short of stature, but strong in sorcery. Jean-Claude called him a tricky bastard, which was a compliment to his skills if not his character. When she looked directly at him, his Gloriole convinced her eye that he was clad in thick furs and supple leathers. When she looked away she caught a glimpse of a rather less glamorous layering of fair-weather clothes and an overlarge winter coat.

The second companion made Isabelle’s skin crawl: Quaestor Czensos, though not as she had seen him in his few appearances at court. The desecrated raiment of a Last Man fluttered about him like a mustard-yellow shroud, the black-embroidered gear train on his mantle ripped to shreds that fluttered like telltales on the Ravenous Gate itself. The tattooed symbols on his head spoke of fury and a rejection of order and reason. He carried in one hand a staff of some black metal that hurt the eye to look upon. His presence clarified much, but raised even more questions. If Czensos had been working with Hasdrubal, that went a long way to explaining why the latter had known about the reliquary of Saint Cynessus. Did he know where the Skaladin was now?

Isabelle and Marie trudged toward the center of the skyland. Marie was still limping, but not badly, and she carried her full kit of weaponry.

As forlorn and abandoned as this hunk of rock was, someone had crowned it with a large cairn of stones surrounded by a low wall, an area some ten meters across. The space was demarcated but not marked in any way as to signify its purpose or provenance.

Ivar and his company angled away from the cairn, and Isabelle aimed to meet them.

“Do you see any more of them?” Isabelle asked. She’d only agreed to this parley because she couldn’t outrun or outgun the Dame Formue. She imagined Ivar had more men hidden about; she certainly did. Bitterlich was making his own approach, unobserved.

Marie said, “No, but they do have a Goldentongue, so who knows how much of what we see is true.”

“That’s comforting,” Isabelle said dryly.

“It wasn’t meant to be,” Marie replied.

The parties stopped within hailing distance of each other.

“Capitaine Ivar, you asked for a parley,” Isabelle shouted.

“Aye, Princess.” The title was an insult on his tongue.

“I am Capitaine,” she said.