“My arms are weary,” the man quavered.
“Weary, are they? I’ll weary your back for you too if it happens again!”
The man on the port oar, a Khond, said deliberately. “Much is going to happen, you Sark scum.” He took his hands off the oar.
The overseer advanced upon him. “Is it now? Why, the filth is a very prophet!”
His lash rose and fell once and then Carse was on him. One hand clamped the man’s mouth shut and the other plunged the dagger in. Swiftly, silently, a second body rolled into the bilges.
A deep animal cry broke out along the oar bank and was choked down as Carse raised his arms in a warning gesture, looking upward at the deck. No one had noticed yet. There had been nothing to draw notice.
Inevitably, the rhythm of the oars had broken but that was not unusual and, in any case, it was the concern of the overseer. Unless it stopped altogether no one would wonder. If luck would only hold…
The drummer had the sense or the habit to keep on. Carse passed the word along—“Keep stroke, until we’re all free!” The beat picked up again, slowly. Crouching low, Carse opened the master locks. The men needed no warning to be easy with their chains as they freed themselves, one by one.
Even so, less than half of them were loose when an idle soldier chose to lean on the deck rail and look down.
Carse had just finished releasing the Swimmers. He saw the man’s expression change from boredom to incredulous awareness and he caught up the overseer’s whip and sent the long lash swinging upward. The soldier bellowed the alarm as the lash coiled around his neck and brought him crashing down into the pit.