Still, there they were. And he knew he had to take action quickly, or all might be lost.

Lost in thought, he stared out over the sea. He would have preferred to stand and fight, throwing bolts at the three enemy ships and blowing them out of the water. But he could do that only by letting them come much closer, and thereby losing his precious lead. And if Wigg and Faegan were aboard them, they could presumably throw twice the number of bolts at him as he could at them. Then there was the problem of whether the Minions were aboard the enemy ships. If so, they could board him at any moment simply by flying to him.

No, the distance between the Sojourner and the enemy frigates had to be maintained. The only way to do that was to sacrifice the other two slavers sailing with him, to buy him time. True, one of them could be carrying Wulfgar. But they were transporting countless slaves in many sea crossings; the odds of Wulfgar currently being aboard either of his two sister ships was not great. He would just have to risk it. Besides, for all he knew Wulfgar might well be in custody already. And he could allow nothing to stand in the way of getting the scroll to the Citadel. He turned to the waiting demonslaver.

"Hear me well, for our lives depend on the next few moments," he ordered. "Call for my first mate. And tell him to bring my lantern. He'll know the one. Have every Talis slave, except those currently manning the galley and one equal-sized number to relieve them, brought topside. They are to be immediately killed and thrown overboard to lighten our load. The R'talis captives are not to be touched. And order the slaves to stop rowing-they'll only slow us down. Go now! And be quick about it!"

Immediately, the slaver was gone. Soon the first mate appeared holding a lantern.

"You are familiar with the situation?" Krassus asked abruptly. The slaver nodded.

"Good," Krassus said. Taking the lamp, he closed his eyes. The lamp began to glow with the blue of the craft. He handed it back to his first mate.

"Take this to the stern gunwale and signal our situation to the Wayfarer and the Stalwart. They are to come about and intercept the three frigates while we sail on. They are to stop the enemy at all costs, and kill everyone aboard. Do you understand?"

The first mate nodded.

"Very well," Krassus said. "Go now."

Looking astern, Krassus saw the Wayfarer and the Stalwart following in their wake, saw the alternating beams of azure light shooting toward them from the lantern, giving them their orders. He turned to Grizelda.

"Now we shall see what we shall see," he said quietly.

The herbmistress' face showed concern. "Surely my lord has not forgotten that the Chosen One is still aboard the Wayfarer," she said questioningly. "He could be killed."

Before answering, Krassus turned to see the additional sails being raised, and the first of the Talis slaves coming topside, blinking their eyes in the sunlight. A gang of slavers stood waiting, swords drawn. As the slaves appeared up the stairway one by one, the slavers stepped up behind them quietly, cut their throats, then tossed the bodies over the gunwales and into the sea.

Sharks swarmed, snaking through the increasingly bloody water. Krassus turned his dark eyes back to the three enemy frigates, ignoring the screams of the dying slaves as if they weren't there.

"Of course I haven't forgotten," he said quietly. "If he dies, he dies. In the end it doesn't really matter. As I have already told you, for what I have planned, his blood signature is of no use to me. But if he should be rescued, I have arranged a little surprise for him and his wizards-one that could be very much to our advantage. So you see, there is no need to worry about him."

He watched intently as the Wayfarer and the Stalwart began to alter course, heeling hard to port, to take on the three advancing frigates. Hundreds of demonslavers could be seen on their decks, swords waving in the air.

As the Sojourner's extra sails snapped open she began to pick up speed, distancing herself from the impending calamity.

T ristan pulled hard on his oar while trying both to keep one eye on the commotion coming from the deck above, and to ignore the searing pain in his back. They had been rowing at battle speed for the last quarter of an hour, ever since the Wayfarer had made a sharp, unexplained course change. Looking out his oar slit, he was sure they were now headed north. As the pacemaster continued to pound out the impossible beat, slaves began groaning and collapsing at their stations, and the lone guard-all the other slavers had been ordered topside-was using his nine-tails with abandon, trying to force them back to work.

For the first time, Tristan noticed a hint of concern in the faces of the two remaining slavers. Then the Wayfarer lurched to port, leaning over hard. As she did, one of the oarsmen on the other side of the ship suddenly dropped his oar, pointed out the slit in the hull, and began babbling wildly.

"Ships!" he screamed, his eyes alight with hope. "Three Eutracian ships! And they fly the war banner of the monarchy!"

Picking up his trident, the demonslaver mercilessly stabbed the man through the abdomen. Then he pulled the prongs out viciously, twisting them to maximize the damage. The man was dead before he hit the deck.

But he hadn't died in vain.

Almost every slave in the galley let go of his oar and craned his neck to look outside. Shouting and pandemonium reigned as the slaver tried in vain to whip them back into submission. Tristan could see nothing on his side of the ship but empty sea. Nonetheless, he was stunned by the slave's words. There was only one answer.

They had finally come for him.

Part of the Minion fleet had arrived, and Wigg and Faegan might even be aboard. His heart sang with the promise of escape. And of killing Krassus and his herbmistress, and taking as many of his horrific captors to their graves as he could. They might even be able to recover the Scroll of the Vagaries. There were debts to repay, and he meant to have his revenge.

While the slaver who had beaten him was preoccupied with trying to whip the excited oarsmen back into submission, Tristan reached into his right boot and slid out the brain hook. Cupping it in his hand, he laid the blade up along the underside of his forearm, then placed his arm down by his side. The blade felt sharp and comforting against his skin.

He knew this would have to be a very closely run thing, for his chains did not allow much freedom of movement. He would only get one chance, and it had to be right.

Hungrily he eyed the ring of keys hanging from the slaver's belt. The large one in the center was still there. Amid the screaming and confusion, Tristan willed the slaver to come to him.

Almost as if he had heard Tristan's silent pleading, the slaver turned, glared at the prince hatefully, and began walking to the front of the ship. Summoning up all the saliva he could muster, Tristan spat toward him and then smiled.

The slaver took another step. Then another. Finally he was directly alongside Tristan. With a smile, he raised his trident.

But suddenly the Wayfarer collided with something. A massive blow struck hard against the port side, and the hull tipped hard to starboard. Losing his balance, the slaver slipped to the right.

As the prongs of the trident came down, Tristan slid toward the bow and grabbed the handle of the trident, using the ship's momentum to pull the surprised slaver down into his lap. In one smooth motion he grabbed the slaver by the throat and shoved the point of the brain hook into the thing's ear.

The slaver screamed and began to struggle. With a vicious twist, Tristan yanked out the hook. The slaver was dead, blood pouring from his ear.

Tristan shoved the brain hook back into his boot. Then he snatched the key ring from the slaver's belt and pushed the corpse off him, into the aisle.