Studying the fresh signature, Tyranny raised an eyebrow. "This is not who you said you were."

"I also told you that I did not want your crew to know who I am," Tristan replied calmly. "You've already shown me the warrant and threatened to turn me in for the reward. What kind of fool would I be if I added my real signature to your documents, as well? Don't worry-there's no place for me to run to. When you come before my wizards, you will have your kisa, I assure you. And if I'm lying, you and that monster first mate of yours can easily kill me. You still have a fortune to win and nothing to lose. Take it or leave it."

After thinking for a moment, Tyranny finally countersigned the agreement, folded the parchment, and slipped it between her breasts. She then called for Scars. The double doors blew open, and the giant was by her side in a flash.

"Return this man's weapons to him," she ordered. "He is one of us now. And change course for the Cavalon Delta at full sail. We have new business there." Then she looked at Tristan.

"Here's the first rule of The People's Revenge," she said. "If you are going to eat our food, you must work for it-regardless of what other circumstances might prevail between us. Scars, take him topside and feed him. Then give him something to do. Perhaps we can make a privateer out of him yet."

"Agreed," Tristan answered.

Without further fanfare, Scars escorted the prince from the room.

Standing, Tyranny went to the windows and looked out on the restless sea. Sensing The People's Revenge heel over to her new course, she smiled.

CHAPTER

Twenty-five

T wenty-Nine watched as his fellow slave pounded the hammer down on the glowing strip of red-hot metal. Then he heard the hiss and saw the steam rise as the man plunged the strip back into the brackish water, tempering it again. The emerging blade would soon become the business end of a short sword and be added to the heap of homely but effective weapons already lying in the far corner of the room.

Other slaves went about fashioning hilts and guards, while still others sharpened and polished the blades. Then the parts would be assembled into the double-edged, razor-sharp swords carried by the demonslavers. On the opposite side of the room, another group of slaves sat fashioning leather into scabbards and baldrics. Periodically a slaver would come in to choose a weapon from the pile of new swords, and tridents.

Twenty-Nine hung his head, still unable to believe that he was plying his craft-which had always been his pride and his passion-for the benefit of these evil monsters.

The simple stone chamber in which he worked was very large and had been hewn directly from the rock, just as the docks had been. A great hole had been fashioned in its ceiling to allow the escape of the smoke generated by the ever-busy hearths. Light was supplied both by the massive oil sconces on the walls, and the surging glow of the orange-red coals. The raucous clanging of the hammers against anvils never seemed to stop, and armed demonslavers paced slowly, watching every move of the hundred or so slaves who toiled here. The room smelled of sweat, soot, and hot iron.

Twenty-Nine remembered when Janus and several of his monstrous servants had first come to where he and his fellow Talis slaves were being held, and demanded to know what their various trades had been. It was a day he would never forget. If they were leathersmiths or weapons makers, the freak had said, then their lives could soon become much easier. There was no point in lying, he had added, for the men in the dark blue robes could enter minds and read the truth. Punishment would be instant death.

And so, hoping that Janus' promises would somehow hold true, Twenty-Nine and a number of others had raised their hands. It was not long until they all wished they had not.

He looked down at his gnarled, broken hands, knowing that even though he could never properly wield a hammer again, he still carried within him an exquisite, uncommon knowledge of the craft of sword making. Even at the relatively young age of thirty-three Seasons of New Life, he had amassed far greater skill than most of the graybeards who had been fashioning swords their entire lives.

He had owned one of the most prestigious weapons shops in all of Eutracia, and had employed over one hundred artisans, all of them serving under his personal mentorship. He had been one of the largest suppliers of arms to the royal guard, and had even been asked from time to time to craft special ceremonial weapons for the royal house. But those days were long gone, due to the destruction of the Royal Guard at the hands of the winged ones that were rumored to have come from across the sea. Without the continued support of the monarchy, his shop had fallen on hard times.

Then he had been captured and brought to the Citadel. Ironically, some of the very men he had employed in his shop now labored with him here in this living nightmare. And knowing them as he did, Twenty-Nine could tell that they were as ashamed of their work as he was. But once a person was assigned to this area, there was no going back. And Janus had lied to them, for this was a harsher existence than the one they had left behind in the cages.

When they had first been brought here and told that it would be their job to produce arms for the demonslavers, many of them had refused-himself included. Janus had simply smiled and marched in another group of fresh Talis slaves. Then he had calmly ordered his demonslavers to behead them, as casually as though he had been speaking about the weather.

From then on, he had said, every time a craftsman slowed in his production or objected to his duties, the number of deaths would double, and then double again. And so they had grudgingly gone about their work. After repeated questioning by Janus regarding their various histories and abilities, Twenty-Nine had been singled out to oversee the labors of all the others and take ultimate responsibility for the quality of the weapons they made.

He yearned to fight back, but he didn't know how. He knew his ruined hands could never effectively employ a sword against the slavers. Even if he and his fellow slaves did manage to take up arms, there were more than enough guards stationed in this room alone to cut them to ribbons. But there was one way to hurt them, he realized.

He would take his own life.

For he was the glue that held the workers together and kept them productive. Without his presence the quality of the weapons would suffer drastically. That would not only hurt the demonslavers' cause, but perhaps even take a few of them when it came time for them to fight. How he wished he could see that day! But he would have to be satisfied with merely taking such knowledge to his grave.

His mood darkened even further as he looked around. Twenty-Nine had always been an honorable man, making superb weapons for the justifiable defense of his nation. This was different. This was the forced production of homely, crude instruments meant for little more than outright butchery of the innocent. And he would have no more of it. Today would be the day.

He began making his way toward the pile of finished weapons in the corner. He was careful to give the appearance of wanting to inspect several of them, as had become his custom. It would not raise any suspicion until it was too late.

Picking up one of the short swords, he felt as much as saw the watchful eyes of several of the demonslavers on him. Taking a deep breath, Twenty-Nine drew the sword and dropped the scabbard to the floor.

Holding the weapon between both palms without wrapping his fingers around it, Twenty-Nine let the blade's point fall to the floor and bobbed it up and down a bit, testing its balance. Then he grasped the hilt as best his damaged hands would allow, turning it this way and that so as to inspect the crazing on either side of the blade. Satisfied, he gently ran his thumb over one edge at a time, testing the sharpness. Finally he grasped the handle and turned the blade around, extending it as far from his body as he could, its point squarely directed toward his chest and only inches from his skin. Then he made a great show of examining the blood groove for uniformity, just as he had already done hundreds of times before in this awful place. By now his tortured hands had begun to shake, and he desperately hoped he wasn't about to give himself away.