Boghaz spoke to Carse in a rapid undertone. “The blockheads didn’t recognize that sword. Keep quiet about your secret—or they’d take us both to Caer Dhu for questioning and you know what that means!” He shuddered over all his great body.
Carse was too numbed to answer. Reaction from this incredible world and from sheer physical fatigue was sweeping over him like a wave.
Boghaz continued loudly for the benefit of their guards. “All this splendor is in honor of the Lady Ywain of Sark! A princess as great as her father, King Garach! To serve in her galley will be a privilege.”
Scyld laughed mockingly. “Well said, Valkisian! And your fervent loyalty shall be rewarded. That privilege will be yours a long time.”
The black war-galley loomed up before them, their destination. Carse saw that it was long, rakish, with a rowers’ pit splitting its deck down the middle and a low stern-castle aft.
Flamboys were blazing on the low poop deck back there and ruddy light spilled from the windows of the cabins beneath it. Sark soldiers clustered back there, chaffing each other loudly.
But in the long dark rowers’ pit there was only a bitter silence.
Scyld raised his bull voice in a shout. “Ho, there, Callus!”
A large man came trunting out of the shadowy pit, negotiating the catwalk with practiced skill. His right hand clutched a leathern bottle and his left a black whip—a long-lashed thing, supple from much using.
He saluted Scyld with the bottle, not troubling to speak.