The man jerked a thumb toward the lead galley. «Man w' t' pennant. Sayin', he want ter lead his ships orf 'lone, sprize pirates, do tall hisself. Want gold hisself, nob'dy t' share it.»

Blade nodded. «Why no sailing ships?»

«Slow,» the man said. «No sprize w' them.»

«Why-?» began Blade, then noticed a slavemaster turning and looking toward him. He and the other slave both tried to look as innocent and occupied with their own affairs as they could. The other man started combing his fingers through his long, gray beard, as if searching for vermin. The slavemaster glowered at both of them, then turned away without bringing down his whip.

Blade considered what the other man had said, mentally translating his brief, crude words. What they added up to was this: Sukar was the admiral commanding the galley squadron to which Kukon belonged. Apparently, he had conceived a plan to take his squadron away from the main fleet and sneak up on the pirates, completely surprising them and winning a decisive victory all by himself.

So far so good. Blade had already guessed this would be the fleet's strategy. But he'd assumed the whole fleet would be making the attack. Instead, Admiral Sukar was dashing off with only seven galleys and no sailing ships. He hoped to win the victory all by himself, without having to share the gold or glory with anyone else in the fleet.

That made no sense at all. The pirates could send to sea ten times as many galleys and fighting men as Sukar had. If the admiral managed complete surprise, he still might not have the strength to win. If he lost surprise-if the pirates had ships or men on watch over the channels through the islands-he was sailing into a massacre. If he didn't lose every man and ship in his squadron, it would be a piece of good fortune he didn't deserve.

How had Sukar gotten permission to do such a foolish thing? Blade thought he could guess. Sukar would be someone with influence at Kul-Nam's court, or the son or brother of someone influential. Blade had heard enough to suggest that a good number of naval and military posts now went to such men. The Empire's fighting men were still well led, by and large-but there were already far too many exceptions to this rule, and more every day. It was just bad luck for Blade that he'd happened to end up in the squadron of one of these court pimps!

Blade did not consider doubting the bearded man's words. He did not know the man's name. No one aboard Kukon did. But practically everyone knew his reputation. He was a man with no education-a laborer or a fisherman, perhaps, before fate brought him to the galleys. He had rowed in the Imperial fleet for twenty years, which was in itself a fair-sized miracle. During that time he'd kept his eyes and ears open every waking minute and had learned much.

There were advantages to being a slave, considered no better than an animal incapable of understanding or repeating what his masters said. After twenty years of listening, there was almost nothing in the Imperial fleet that was still a secret to the bearded man. If he said that Admiral Sukar was leading the squadron off on a wildgoose chase that might lead it to disaster, Admiral Sukar was doing just that.

Blade swore to himself. He felt like swearing out loud. The feeling that those in command knew what they were doing was suddenly gone. In its place was the feeling of being dragged along by fools. He was as helpless as before-and in far greater danger.

Chapter 13

That afternoon the squadron swung onto a new course, toward the northeast, and the wind began to die. For the first time in two weeks the oars were broken out at sea and the rowers set to work. Fortunately, they only worked at the steady cruising stroke, rather than the back-breaking, lung-searing attack or ramming strokes.

They rowed on through the rest of the day. As night fell they kept on, but with only half the oars in action and half the rowers at work. The other half sprawled on or under their benches and tried to sleep.

Blade was in the half that remained on duty. He rowed on steadily as the last of the daylight faded from the sea. He found it easy by now to row without any use of his conscious mind. His body swayed, his arms strained, his oar dipped and rose and dipped again without his really being aware of any of it.

Eventually the slavemasters called for a change in the rowers. Blade stretched out on the deck under the bench and made himself as comfortable as possible. The planks were filthy, they seemed as hard as iron, and they were full of splinters that Blade always had to pick out of his skin the next morning. But he'd slept on them for months now and was resigned to sleeping on them for quite a while longer. He fell asleep quickly, with the clunk of the oars, the rattle of chains, and the creak of the galley's timbers sounding in his cars.

Blade awoke to the bellowings and whip-crackings of the slavemasters as they turned out all the rowers. Toward the bow he saw Dzhai, his axe flashing as he chopped up firewood with machinelike precision and stacked it beside the stone hearth on the foc'sle. Closer at hand he saw the bearded man, already awake and pulling steadily at his oar, seemingly as tireless and indestructible as a statue of solid iron.

They rowed on slowly and steadily through a broiling hot day, the air so heavy and windless that the sails hung as limp as dishrags. Toward noon the sailors sent down the yards and sails onto the deck. Only the masts rose, now gaunt and bare, with the lookouts perched in the tops like crows on top of dead trees. Now the galleys had no power but their rowers. On the other hand, they were much less visible from a distance.

Barely two hours after the sails came down, the northern horizon began sprouting the dark shapes of rugged, heavily wooded islands. Once again half the oars were pulled in and half the rowers allowed to rest. The galleys crept toward the islands all through the afternoon, the lookouts scanning both the land and the sea for any sign of a watching enemy. Both horizons were empty of friends or enemies.

Toward evening the fleet swung in toward the lee of an uninhabited island a mile long and nearly as high. A landing party of soldiers went ashore to set up a lookout station and make sure the island stayed uninhabited. All seven galleys dropped anchor and sent all hands to dinner.

As he ate his porridge and salt fish, Blade noticed Kukon's captain pacing up one side of the quarterdeck and down the other. He wore a crumpled blue tunic and a thoroughly grim expression. Blade remembered what the bearded man had said of Kukon's captain: a thoroughly efficient, professional sailor and fighting man, risen to captain by sheer ability, with no friends in court to help him rise farther. Not a man who would be happy with Admiral Sukar's wild chase after personal glory.

If they still had surprise on their side, things might go well enough. Yet here they were, anchored for the night, not knowing what word might be racing across the islands to bring the pirates' fleet swarming out.

Admittedly, it might be sheer suicide to try moving through the islands by night. The passages were known to very few pilots outside the pirates' fleet. A night move could simply run the galleys aground or rip them open on submerged rocks, without any help from the pirates.

There was danger on either hand and in any course of action. The only way for the squadron to be sure of getting safely out of its predicament seemed to be for Admiral Sukar to have a sudden attack of common sense. Blade suspected, though, that it was too late.

As it turned out, Blade was quite right.

Blade and everyone else in the squadron learned the hopelessness of their situation at dawn the next morning. A wild cry from the masthead jerked Blade out of sleep like an electric shock. He stood up as the lookout shouted again.