Page 173

Wintrow divined quickly that Gantry didn’t want to touch the filth-encrusted chain that ran through the rings on each slave’s ankle fetters.

Human excrement and dried blood no longer bothered Wintrow much.

He crawled down the row of slaves, lantern in hand, rattling the running chain through each ring until he reached the dying man. He freed him.

‘One moment, before you take him,’ the priest-slave begged. He leaned over to touch his friend’s brow. ‘Sa bless you, his instrument. Peace take you.’

Then quick as a snake Sa’Adar snatched up the lantern and threw it.

His force was savage, his aim unerring. Wintrow clearly saw Gantry’s eyes dilate in horror just as the heavy metal lantern struck him full in the brow.

The glass chimney broke with the impact and Gantry went down with a groan.

The lantern landed beside him, rolling as the ship was rolling now.

Oil trailed from it in a crooked track. The flame had not gone out.

‘Get the lantern!’ the slave barked at Wintrow as he snatched the chain from his lax grip. ‘Quickly, now, before there’s a fire!’

Preventing the fire was the most urgent thing to do, of that Wintrow had no doubt.

But as he scrabbled towards it, he was aware of slaves stirring all around him.

He heard the rattle of metal on metal as the running chain was tugged through ring after ring behind him.

He snatched up the lantern, righting it and lifting it away from the spilled oil.

He exclaimed as he cut his foot on the broken glass of the lantern, but that cry of pain turned to one of horror as he saw one of the freed slaves casually fasten throttling hands around the unconscious Gantry’s neck.

‘No!’ he cried, but in that instant the slave had slammed the mate’s skull down hard on the staple that had secured the running chain.

Something in the way Gantry’s skull bounced told Wintrow it was too late.

The mate was dead and the slaves were freeing themselves from the running chain as fast as the chain could be dragged through the fetters.

‘Good work, boy,’ one slave congratulated him as Wintrow looked down on the mate’s body.

He watched the same slave claim the key from Gantry’s belt.

It was all happening so fast, and he was a part of it happening, and yet he could not say how he fitted in.

He wanted no part of Gantry’s death to be his.

‘He was not a bad man!’ he cried out suddenly. ‘You should not have killed him!’

‘Quiet!’ Sa’Adar said sharply. ‘You’ll alert the others before we are ready.

’ He glanced back at Gantry. ‘You cannot say he was a good man, to countenance what went on aboard this ship. And cruel things have to be done, to undo worse cruelty,’ he said quietly.

It was no saying of Sa’s that Wintrow had ever heard.

His eyes came back to Wintrow’s. ‘Think on it,’ he bade him.

‘Would you have refastened the chains that held us? You, with a tattoo of your own down your face?’

He did not wait for a reply. Wintrow was guiltily relieved at that, for he had no answer to the question.

If by refastening the chain he could have saved Gantry’s life, would he have done it?

If by refastening the chain, he condemned all these men to a life of slavery, would he have done it?

There were no answers to the questions. He stared down at Gantry’s still face.

He suspected the mate had not known the answer to such questions either.

The priest was moving swiftly through the hold, unlocking other running chains.

The mutter of the freed slaves seemed part and parcel of the rising sounds of the storm outside the hull.

‘Check the bastard’s pockets for the key to these fetters as well,’ someone suggested in a hoarse whisper, but Wintrow didn’t move.

He couldn’t move. He watched in stunned detachment as two slaves rifled the mate’s clothing.

Gantry had carried no fetter key, but his belt knife and other small possessions were quickly appropriated.

One slave spat on the body in passing. And still Wintrow stood, lantern in hand, and stared.

The priest was speaking quietly to those around him.

‘We’re a long way from free, but we can make it if we’re wise.

No noise, now. Keep still. We need to free as many of ourselves as we can before anyone on deck is the wiser.

We outnumber them, but our chains and our bodies are going to tell against us.

On the other hand, the storm may be in our favour.

It may keep them all occupied until it’s too late for them. ’

The priest glanced at Wintrow. His smile was a hard one.

‘Come, boy, and bring the lantern. We’ve Sa’s work to do.

’ To the others he said quietly, ‘We have to leave you now, in the dark, while we go to free the others. Be patient. Be brave. Pray. And remember that if you move too soon, you condemn us all, and this brave boy’s work will be for naught.

’ To Wintrow he said, ‘Lead on. Hold by hold, we have to free them all, and then take the crew by surprise. It’s the only chance we have. ’

Numbly, Wintrow led the way. Above him, he heard the first pattering of a hard rain falling on Vivacia’s decks. Within and without, the long-brewing storm overtook the ship.

‘I don’t care about the weather. I want the ship.’

‘Aye, sir.’ Sorcor took a breath as if to speak further, but then changed his mind.

‘Let’s go after her.’ Kennit went on. He stood in the waist and stared out over the water, clutching the rail with both hands like a landsman.

Ahead of them, the silvery hull of the liveship glistened as she cut the rising waves, and seemed to beckon him through the night.

He spoke without looking away from her. ‘I’ve a feeling about this one. I think she’s ours for the taking.’

The bow of the Marietta bit deeper into an oncoming wave.

Spray flew up suddenly, drenching them all.

The blast of icy water almost felt good against his over-heated body, but even that splash was nearly enough to push him off-balance.

He managed to cling where he was and keep his leg under him.

The ship fell off as she crested the wave and Kennit was hard put to keep from falling.

His crutch hit the deck and washed away from him as the next wave rushed out through the scuppers.

He was barely able to keep his foot under him by clinging tightly to the ship’s rail.

‘Damn it, Sorcor, trim her up!’ he roared to cover his shame.

He doubted the man heard him. Sorcor had already left his side and was shouting orders to deckhands on his way back to the helm.

‘Let me take you back to the cabin,’ the ever-present whore said from behind his shoulder.

He had just been about to tell her to do that.

Now, of course, he could not. He’d have to wait until she believed it was his own idea, or until he could think of a good reason why he had to go there.

Damn her! His good leg was beginning to tire, and the bad one just dangled there, a hot heavy weight of pain.

‘Retrieve my stick,’ he ordered her. It pleased him to see her chase it across the wave-washed deck. At the same time, he noted that she definitely had her sea-legs now. There was nothing clumsy about her. Had she been a man, he’d have said she had the makings of a good sailor.

In that abrupt change so characteristic of these waters, the rain squall hit them.

Torrents sheeted down over the ship, while the wind’s direction seemed to switch almost constantly.

He could hear Sorcor’s bellowed commands to the deck crew.

What had looked to be a simple little blow was now building up to something else entirely.

There was always a current in Hawser Channel, and in some tides it could be difficult, but now the storm wind conspired with that current to send them racing.

The liveship fled ahead of them. He watched her, expecting her to take in sail.

Sorcor had their hands reefing canvas. Storm and current were driving them along swiftly enough without giving the treacherous winds anything extra to push on.

Not far ahead was Crooked Island. To the east of the island was the better passage.

The liveship would certainly take it. To the west of the island was how they would have to go.

They’d use both storm and current to race ahead of the liveship and cut her off.

It would be tricky, and no mistake there.

He wasn’t sure they’d make it. Well, he doubted he had long to live anyway.

He might as well die on his own deck if he couldn’t do it on the deck of a liveship.

Sorcor had taken the wheel himself; Kennit could tell it by the way the Marietta seemed suddenly to relish each challenging wave.

He squinted his eyes against the downpour and tried to find their quarry again.

For the space of three waves he could not see her.

Then he spotted the liveship at the same time as he heard her distant scream.

She was taking the storm badly, her untended sails pushing her awkwardly against each wave.

As Kennit watched in horror, she slid down the trough of a wave, disappeared, and then a moment later wallowed into view again.

His straining eyes could pick out figures of men dashing about her dimly-lit decks, lots of men, but no one seemed to be doing anything to save her.

He gave a groan of despair. To get this close to capturing a liveship, only to see her go down right before his eyes because of her own crew’s incompetence — it was too bitter to bear.