"Do you understand?" she heard. The voice spoke tersely, hoarse and guttural. The Brucolac. "He’ll be somewhere in that section-I don’t know exactly where, but I’ve no doubt that you can find him."

"We understand."Bellis closed her eyes at that awful second voice. It sounded as if the whispered words were chance echoes in parting slime. "We will find him," it continued, "and take back what was stolen, and then we will leave, and the avanc will move freely again."

"Well, I’ll be quick then," the Brucolac said. "There’s two people I still have to kill."

Footsteps receded. Bellis risked opening her eyes and moving her head a tiny way, and she saw the Brucolac stalking calmly and at speed toward the raised section of superstructure below which were the Grand Easterly ’s meeting rooms.

Bellis heard the door open, and quick wet sounds brushing the threshold as the intruders entered.

Understanding and amazement hit her so hard she reeled. She knew in a sudden gust of insight what those newcomers were, and what-and whom-they were seeking.

So far…?she thought, giddy. So far? But she had no doubt.

Holding her breath so that her terrified hyperventilation would not betray her, Bellis looked around the corner. There was no one in sight.

She tried desperately to think of what to do. She heard a rushing sound and a series of terrible screams from the ships below. She could not help but give a quiet cry when she saw what the intruders’ thaumaturgy had done, what was now happening to the men and women of Armada. She shook her head and moaned, stupefied by the blood and disfigured corpses she saw.

Another burst of energy crossed the air from the Hoddling, and a vivid anger settled very suddenly in Bellis’ guts, making her tremble. Her fear remained, but this new rage was much stronger.

It was directed at Silas Fennec.

You fucking bastard!she thought. You fucking stupid selfish swine! Look what you’ve done! Look what you’ve brought here! She watched the carnage, her own hands bloodless.

I have to stop this.

And then she knew how.

She knew what had been stolen, and she knew where it was.

As the vampir sawed at the age-fused rope of the last of the Grand Easterly ’s bridges, a sword-wielding figure hurled himself up the slats. The vampir stepped back in surprise and fumbled for their weapons.

Uther Doul reached the deck. The vampir closest to him brought out her flintlock and turned it on him, flickering her tongue and snarling, her fangs extending like a snake’s. Doul beheaded her with a kind of contempt.

Her two fellows watched the tattoo of her heels on the wood. Doul walked toward them without hesitation, and they ran.

"Where,"Uther Doul bellowed after them, "is the Brucolac?"