Belasý found her confidence in the skills of the team dropping by the minute.  She would probably have been better off going with just Izkry.  At least she could anticipate him.  Or perhaps alone.  Goodness knew getting out was going to be just as hard, and her brother did not share her vendetta.  He was a good man.  He shouldn't have been in the army at all, but he wouldn't let her go off on her own.  Yet another reason he was a far better person than she.

The bumbling Spaniard spoke French well, but he peppered it with Spanish.  She scowled, and punched his shoulder -- not hard, but enough that he'd feel it.  "No Spanish," she snapped, probably the first thing he'd heard her say.  Her voice was quiet but forceful, and she spoke with a clipped cadence, using no unnecessary words.  She glared at him, bright blue eyes looking right at him, narrowed in anger.  "French /only/."