He wrenched the collar and the belt away, admired the play of light on the jewels and dropped them into his belt-pouch. Then he moved to the bed, where the sword lay half-concealed among the blankets. He picked it up, felt the weight and balance of the blade, examined casually the chasing of the steel and smiled.
“A real weapon,” he said. “Beautiful as the Lady herself—and just as deadly.”
He used the point to cut Carse free of his bonds. “Up, Khond,” he said, and helped him with the toe of his heavy sandal.
Carse staggered to his feet and shook his head once to clear it. Then, before the men of the press-gang could grasp him, he smashed his hard fist savagely into the expansive belly of Boghaz.
Scyld laughed. He had a deep, hearty seaman’s laugh. He kept guffawing as his soldiers pulled Carse away from the doubled-up gasping Valkisian.
“No need for that now,” Scyld told him. “There’s plenty of time. You two are going to see a lot of each other.”
Carse watched a horrible realization break over the fat face of Boghaz.
“My lord,” quavered the Valkisian, still gasping. “I am a loyal man. I wish only to serve the interests of Sark and her Highness, the Lady Ywain.” He bowed.
“Naturally,” said Scyld. “And how could you better serve both Sark and the Lady Ywain than by pulling an oar in her war-galley?”
Boghaz was losing color by the second. “But, my lord—”