Bitterlich thumped the blubbering Last Man on the head hard enough to knock him out and dropped him next to Quill, who slowly uncurled from his defensive knot. His porter had disappeared, legging it away from the mob and the monster. Bitterlich reverted to his erstepelz, wiped the blood from his mouth with a handkerchief, and checked his cravat. He could hardly bring himself to move until he felt presentable: human.

He extended a hand to Quill. “Are you badly injured, monsieur?”

Quill accepted the hand up. “Nothing broken, I think.”

“It’s fortunate Capitaine Isabelle sent me to look for you. Can you walk, or shall I summon a litter?”

Quill hobbled around in a circle for a moment, testing his limbs. “I had best walk. It will make things hurt less later, but my trunk…”

Bitterlich hoisted the heavy trunk in one hand. Even in his most human guise, he was considerably stronger than a man his size should be.

By this time, the local constabulary had showed up to survey the carnage. Bitterlich handed the unconscious Last Man off to a guard sergeant with instructions to deliver him directly to Comtesse Impervia with Bitterlich’s best regards. The sergeant bestowed Bitterlich a sort of wary look that made him wonder if he’d entirely succeeded in getting the blood off his face, but he took the Last Man away without complaint.

Bitterlich and Quill set off toward the Thunderclap at the best speed Quill could manage.

“Why does this Hasdrubal fellow want you dead?” Bitterlich asked.

Quill grimaced. “Because I know what he means to do, and he does not want me in a position to thwart him.”

“Perhaps you should tell me what he means to do,” Bitterlich said. “If for no other reason than to multiply his targets.”

“If it can wait until we get on board, I plan to tell Capitaine Isabelle the whole story.”

“I will hold you to that,” Bitterlich said, and he would wait to see if Quill explained why he’d wanted the Hand of Saint Cynessus, or if he still had secrets he was trying to bury.

CHAPTER

Six

Lofting the ship and getting under way turned out to be the most mundane task of Isabelle’s whole watch. She judged the conditions and gave the orders as she’d practiced, and the crew pulled off the maneuver without a lurch. She navigated the turbulent airs of the coastal trough and the Thunderclap hooked into the swift currents of the Craton Massif, whisked along until the ship climbed to the permeable ridge and passed over into more easily manageable skies.