Gantry sidled down to reach one of the heavy staples that had been driven into the Vivacia's main timbers. Here was where the running chain was secured. The salt of the sea air and the sweaty humidity of the packed slaves had not favored the lock that fastened the running chain to the staple. Gantry struggled with it for a rime before the key turned stiffly. He tugged at the lock until it opened. The running chain dropped free to the squalid deck. “Unhook him from the others,” he ordered Wintrow brusquely. “Then re-secure them and let's get him up on deck. Quickly, now. I don't like the way the Vivacia is taking these waves.”

Wintrow divined quickly that Gantry didn't want to touch the filth-encrusted chain that ran through the rings on each slave's ankle fetters. Human excrement and dried blood no longer bothered Wintrow much. He crawled down the row of slaves, lantern in hand, rattling the running chain through each ring until he reached the dying man. He freed him.

“One moment, before you take him,” the priest slave begged. He leaned over to touch his friend's brow. “Sa bless you, his instrument. Peace take you.”

Then quick as a snake Sa'Adar snatched up the lantern and threw it. His force was savage, his aim unerring. Wintrow clearly saw Gantry's eyes dilate in horror just as the heavy metal lantern struck him full in the brow. The glass chimney broke with the impact and Gantry went down with a groan. The lantern landed beside him, rolling as the ship was rolling now. Oil trailed from it in a crooked track. The flame had not gone out.

“Get the lantern!” the slave barked at Wintrow as he snatched the chain from his lax grip. “Quickly, now, before there's a fire!”

Preventing the fire was the most urgent thing to do, of that Wintrow had no doubt. But as he scrabbled towards it, he was aware of slaves stirring all around him. He heard the rattle of metal on metal as the running chain was tugged through ring after ring behind him. He snatched up the lantern, righting it and lifting it away from the spilled oil. He exclaimed as he cut his foot on the broken glass of the lantern, but that cry of pain turned to one of horror as he saw one of the freed slaves casually fasten throttling hands around the unconscious Gantry's neck.

“No!” he cried, but in that instant the slave had slammed the mate's skull down hard on the staple that had secured the running chain. Something in the way Gantry's skull bounced told Wintrow it was too late. The mate was dead and the slaves were freeing themselves from the running chain as fast as the chain could be dragged through the fetters. “Good work, boy,” one slave congratulated him as Wintrow looked down on the mate's body. He watched the same slave claim the key from Gantry's belt. It was all happening so fast, and he was a part of it happening, and yet he could not say how he fitted in. He wanted no part of Gantry's death to be his.

“He was not a bad man!” he cried out suddenly. “You should not have killed him!”

“Quiet!” Sa'Adar said sharply. “You'll alert the others before we are ready.” He glanced back at Gantry. “You cannot say he was a good man, to countenance what went on aboard this ship. And cruel things have to be done, to undo worse cruelty,” he said quietly. It was no saying of Sa's that Wintrow had ever heard. His eyes came back to Wintrow's. “Think on it,” he bade him. “Would you have refastened the chains that held us? You, with a tattoo of your own down your face?”

He did not wait for a reply. Wintrow was guiltily relieved at that, for he had no answer to the question. If by refastening the chain he could have saved Gantry's life, would he have done it? If by refastening the chain, he condemned all these men to a life of slavery, would he have done it? There were no answers to the questions. He stared down at Gantry's still face. He suspected the mate had not known the answer to such questions either.

The priest was moving swiftly through the hold, unlocking other running chains. The mutter of the freed slaves seemed part and parcel of the rising sounds of the storm outside the hull. “Check the bastard's pockets for the key to these fetters as well,” someone suggested in a hoarse whisper, but Wintrow didn't move. He couldn't move. He watched in stunned detachment as two slaves rifled the mate's clothing. Gantry had carried no fetter key, but his belt knife and other small possessions were quickly appropriated. One slave spat on the body in passing. And still Wintrow stood, lantern in hand, and stared.

The priest was speaking quietly to those around him. “We're a long way from free, but we can make it if we're wise. No noise, now. Keep still. We need to free as many of ourselves as we can before anyone on deck is the wiser. We outnumber them, but our chains and our bodies are going to tell against us. On the other hand, the storm may be in our favor. It may keep them all occupied until it's too late for them.”