The drummer, who was a slave himself. The two Swimmers. The overseer, up at the forward end of the catwalk, lashing a rower. Rows of shoulders, bending over the oars, back and forth. Rows of faces above them. The faces of rats, of jackals, of wolves. The creak and groan of the looms, the reek of sweat and bilge water, the incessant beat, beat, beat of the drum.
The soldier turned Carse over to Callus and went away. Jaxart was back on the oar and with him a lean Sark convict with a brand on his face. They glanced up at Carse and then away again.
Callus thrust the Earthman roughly onto the bench, where he bent low over the oar. Callus stopped to fix the master chain to his leg irons, growling as he did so.
“I hope that Ywain lets me have you when she’s all through with you, carrion! I’ll have fun while you last—”
Callus stopped very suddenly and said no more, then or ever. Carse had stabbed his heart with such swift neatness that not even Callus was aware of the stroke until he ceased to breathe.
“Keep stroke!” snarled Carse to Jaxart under his breath. The big Khond obeyed. A smoldering light came into his eyes. The branded man laughed once, silently, with a terrible eagerness.
Carse cut the key to the master locks free from its thong on Callus’ girdle and let the corpse down gently into the bilges.
The man across the catwalk on the port oar had seen as had the drummer. “Keep stroke!” said Carse again and Jaxart glared and the stroke was kept. But the drum beat faltered and died.
Carse shook off his manacles. His eyes met the drummer’s and the rhythm started again but already the overseer was on his way aft, shouting.
“What’s the matter there, you pig?”