“Do they know the Thunderclap is headed that way?” Jean-Claude asked. It had proven impossible to keep the existence of Isabelle’s expedition a secret. By now it was nearly common knowledge that she was hunting the Conquest treasure. What l’Empire had managed to keep secret was where precisely that prize was located. Jean-Claude had heard many theories bandied about in the past months, but so far no one had guessed that the wreck might lie north beyond the impenetrable wall of the Bittergale. All of her competition would be playing catch-up.

“I must assume that they do know and will be hunting you. Hasdrubal might not have accompanied Lael on his trip through the Bittergale, but we have no reason to doubt he knew where his co-conspirator was going.”

“So our only advantage is that we have Hailer Dok and the Conquest’s keel shard.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that advantage, either. The Skaladin keep Windcaller slaves along with every other type of sorcerer.”

“Even if they do have a Windcaller, that doesn’t mean that person knows how to penetrate the Bittergale.”

“True, but if Dok figured out how to get through, someone else can as well.”

“And the Conquest shard?” Jean-Claude asked.

“Just don’t lose it.”

“I’ll tell Isabelle.” Jean-Claude finished the last of his drink and set the glass on the table.

“How is she adjusting to her new role?” Impervia asked.

“She can handle it,” Jean-Claude said.

“That sounds … incomplete.” Impervia finally took a meaningful draw at her liquor. “I always have a hard time picturing her in the military.”

Jean-Claude thought about Isabelle all the time, but he rarely had to tease apart his own understanding of her into discrete sentences. “She wants peace, but she’s no pacifist. Still, I don’t think she would have accepted the commission if she was being sent to war. She’s in it for the exploration. She’s really looking forward to getting aloft. The sailing she likes.”

“And you?”

“Not looking forward to the flying-around bit,” he said.

“Have you ever thought about staying behind?” she asked, a note of caution in her voice. “I could use your help.”

He’d thought about it a lot. Thirty years ago, he’d missed his chance to make a life with Impervia, which was probably a good thing. They’d both gone on to build separate lives, raise their own children. Now they had a chance to be friends and lovers, support without dependency.

“Have you ever thought about coming along?” he asked.

“More than once,” she said, and let out a long, soft breath. “But I’m not going and you’re not staying. Oil and vinegar may taste good together, but they always separate.”

“Life as a salad,” he said. “One day fresh; the next wilted.”