CHAPTER

Twenty-one

"G et up! Now, you Talis pigs! Time to get back to work!"

The chorus of harsh voices, shouting the same thing over and over again, rang in his ears. He just wanted them to be quiet, so he could go back to sleep. Didn't they know they were being rude, shouting like that? He would have to remember to speak to the lead wizard about it, after he got up and had his breakfast. Determined to sleep, he started to turn over on his side, but something tugged at him, preventing him from doing so.

Suddenly the searing pain in his back returned, bringing him fully awake. His nostrils were immediately assaulted by the stench of his surroundings.

He opened his eyes to darkness. Then faint light began to push away the shadows, and he saw that demonslavers were moving about, hanging flaming oil lanterns on the columns supporting the deck above. Other demonslavers were starting to unchain their captives from the floor. As the light in the hold increased, Tristan's situation slowly came into focus.

He didn't remember being brought here, or being chained. All he could recall was passing out, just after one of the slavers had poured saltwater on his wounds.

He looked down the length of his body. His hands and feet were still bound together by the same shackles he had worn while rowing. Additional chains lay across his chest and lower legs, securing him to the deck. Raising his head as best he could, he saw row after row of his fellow slaves, all male, also chained down like animals. It seemed their numbers took up every inch of the filthy deck. As they were unchained one by one, they stood awkwardly, blinking their eyes against the light.

The pain in his back was excruciating. His vest had been put back on him, its laces retied in the front. His wounds must have begun to scab over, because they now itched, as well as hurt.

One of the slavers sauntered over to him and looked down with lifeless, opaque eyes. Without warning the monster kicked Tristan in the ribs, knocking the wind out of him. Pain burned in his side. Then the slaver raised his trident high over Tristan's face. Wondering if he was about to die, Tristan made a last promise to himself not to flinch. He kept it, even as the trident came down at him with unbelievable speed.

The three silver points of the trident buried themselves loudly into the deck, just inches from Tristan's head. Then the slaver let out a laugh.

"If you give us any more trouble, I have permission from Krassus to add to the artwork on your back," he sneered. "And I beg you to try, dear prince. For I would love another such excuse."

Tristan looked defiantly up into the white eyes. As he did, he noticed the ring of keys hanging from the slaver's side. Then he remembered: This was the same one who had whipped him; he was sure of it.

The monster unchained him from the floor. Still shackled hand and foot, Tristan was pulled roughly to his feet and shoved into the line of slaves waiting their turn to climb the stairway to the deck above.

After being chained to his seat, Tristan looked out his oar slit and decided it was early morning. He then turned to watch as the rest of the slaves were chained down. The slaver who had beaten him was using one of his keys to close the massive padlock that secured the single chain running through all of the slaves' shackles. The key that fit it was the largest of them, and lay in the center of the ring normally hooked on his belt. Tristan filed this information away in his head, even though he realized that, given the tight security of the slavers' system, such knowledge would be unlikely to help him.

One by one, the exhausted, weak-kneed men they were replacing were herded to the trapdoor between the rows and forced down the stairway. Several slavers followed them down, to chain them to the floor in the same filthy spots the fresh rowers had just vacated. Then the pacemaster started pounding out the mind-numbing beat, and Tristan and the others began to pull on their oars.

Despite the searing pain, he rowed as best he could. He had no other choice: He wasn't sure he could survive another savage beating from the slaver. As he rowed he felt his wounds rip open, the pain cutting through his back like hot knives.

He looked up to see the slaver who had beaten him staring coldly at him, as if waiting for him to make another mistake. Pulling determinedly at his oar, Tristan drew comfort from the thought of the brain hook hidden in his right boot.

As all of the unfortunates pulled on their oars, the Wayfarer began to plow faster through the Sea of Whispers.

T he demonslaver manning the crow's nest aboard the Sojourner twisted the third cylinder of his spyglass as he tried to confirm what he had seen with his naked eyes. He had no wish to suffer the consequences of making a false report to Krassus. Peering across the sea, he scoured the horizon.

There they were: Three frigates, sailing as a group and making a direct line from the north. They were running quickly before the wind, while Sojourner and her two sister ships were wearing out their rowers to stay on their easterly heading.

He ran his glass over them carefully. They were not part of Krassus' fleet, judging by the way their spars and masts had been lengthened to carry more sail. They were a fast lot-of that there was no doubt. Faster than the Sojourner could be even if she weren't loaded down with slaves. And at their present course they would soon be upon the three slower, heavier slavers. But who were they, and what did they want?

Searching for an identifying flag, he turned his glass to the lead frigate's rigging. Finally he found what he was looking for. It was high atop the mainmast, fluttering back and forth proudly. Turning the cylinder on the spyglass again, he brought it into focus.

At first he thought he must be seeing things. Taking his eye from the glass for a moment, the slaver stared across the ocean and drew a quick breath. He put the device back to his eye. So it was true, after all. The blue-and-gold banner carried both the lion and the broadsword, and every man, woman, and child in Eutracia knew what it represented.

It was the royal battle flag of the House of Galland.

He rang the alarm bell. Almost before it had finished pealing, another slaver had climbed up the rigging to a spot just below him. Pointing out to sea with one arm, the spotter relayed the message. The other slaver climbed back down and ran to find Krassus.

He found him standing on the stern deck by the ship's wheel, looking over some charts. His herbmistress was there with him. The slaver came to attention.

"Begging your pardon, my lord," he said urgently. "But the crow's nest has spied three ships, frigate class, on a direct course to intercept us from the north. Their speed is great. They run the blue-and-gold battle flag of the House of Galland."

Krassus froze. Snatching up his spyglass from the table before him, he turned to look north. There he saw the three ships plowing directly toward them, running before the wind with unusually large sails. He moved the lens up to the enemy ship's rigging and saw the blue-and-gold flag. His mind racing, he slowly lowered the spyglass. They were clearly after him, but who could they be? The wizards of the Redoubt, perhaps? But the Redoubt had no standing navy. Still, who else but the wizards would have the gall to run the royal battle flag?

Then it hit him. These could be vessels of the Minion fleet, under the assumed command of the wizards. But those vessels were rumored anchored off the coast of Parthalon, at a port far to the north of his present position. How could Wigg and Faegan have gotten word to them, supplied the ships, and had them catch up to his present position in so short a time? The logistics simply didn't work. And if it was indeed the Minions, then why were there only three ships?