Jean-Claude’s bushy eyebrows went up. “You seem to have mistaken me for someone over whom you have authority.”

Djordji’s eyes narrowed. “You never is as good as you might be. Too lazy by half, and now yer nothing more than ballast.”

Jean-Claude snorted. “You forget, old man, horseshit is my weapon of choice. I don’t need to prove myself to you.”

“You do to her.” Djordji twitched his nose at Marie. The encircling crew hooted as if he’d scored some salient point.

Jean-Claude glowered at Djordji.

Marie looked back and forth between them. “You don’t need to prove anything to me.”

Bitterlich watched this byplay with acute curiosity. The Old Hands had known each other for longer than Bitterlich had been alive. They had levers to pull no one else could guess.

At last Jean-Claude heaved himself off the rail and divested himself of his sword belt. To the crowd he said, “Which one of you strapping young gentlemen wants to put this old dog out of his misery?”

Nobody spoke, for Jean-Claude was an Old Hand. There were a bare handful of such people in all of l’Empire, each one a living legend worthy of respect if not outright awe to common men. The aeronauts and soldiers might well all demur.

Bitterlich looked over his assembled marines and said, “Caron, you need the exercise.”

The marine in question was indeed a worthy specimen, nearly as broad as he was tall. He’d been a boxer before he was pressed into the then roi’s service. Caron looked startled to be called out, but nodded to Bitterlich, shed his jacket, and stepped into the ring.

Only then did Bitterlich have second thoughts about pitting him against a man clearly past his prime. Caron was apt to interpret Bitterlich’s command as “Destroy that target.” It was too late now to clarify, though, not without embarrassing both men, which would have been worse than any beating.

Jean-Claude gave Bitterlich a withering look and stumbled into the center of the arena, limping on his right leg. Had he reinjured it?

Bitterlich cursed his own tongue. He’d just been trying to contribute.

Mistake. It was always a mistake to join in, but it was one he couldn’t stop making. Oil did not mix with water, nor Seelenjägers with Célestials.

Jean-Claude bent over as if to touch his toes and demonstrated a range of motion akin to that of a stack of bricks. Bitterlich grimaced internally. Should he be less worried about making an enemy and more worried about crippling Isabelle’s adoptive father?

Marie drifted to Bitterlich’s side. She had frequently been present when he spoke to Isabelle, but he’d hardly ever done more than exchange pleasantries with her outside that context.

“Mademoiselle,” Bitterlich said to Marie. “How is Monsieur Jean-Claude’s health?”