Away from Gavin.

The Bitter Cob had dropped anchor a fair distance from whatever the nearest town was. The slaves thought it was Corrath Springs, though more than half the slaves were Angari and therefore strangers to the Cerulean Sea, so Gavin figured everyone was guessing, putting a name on a place to try to give themselves some illusion of control over it. The other galley, Rage of the Seas—a grandiose title, but the Ilytians didn’t have much use for modesty—had been manned by Gunner’s first mate and the third mate, who hated the first mate, and Leonus, who hated everyone.

Gavin thought it was a smart move. Men who hated each other were much less likely to collude. If the officers came back with wildly different stories of how much they got paid for the galley and cargo, you could ask Leonus. Not a foolproof design, but reasonably good, especially if the next time you sent different men.

The crew who’d stayed behind were unhappy about not getting a chance for shore leave, but Gunner silenced that in short order with a few beatings.

The mates and Leonus came back the next morning, having sold the Rage of the Seas and the slaves—and doubtless spent the night being entertained at a brothel, but that was a tax any wise captain was willing to pay. They hoisted anchor and headed out immediately. The only supplies the men had brought back were barrels of hardtack and barrels of brandy. The galley slaves all got a measure, with a double for those in the first six rows. Leonus shorted them all, though, setting aside enough for himself that he got thoroughly sick.

It was also thoroughly stupid. If he’d only shorted a few of them, or those in the back, he could have stolen the same amount of drink. Instead, he was uniting the slaves against him.

Once they’d been under way for a couple of hours, Gavin was chained, released from his oar, and bundled upstairs. He was taken to the poop, where Gunner was waiting.

Gavin was forced to kneel again, and his chains locked to a ring on deck. He didn’t fight, didn’t grimace.

“You’re a problem,” Gunner said. He dismissed Leonus and the other sailor who’d brought Gavin up. He had his curious white gun-sword hoisted over his shoulders, and was hanging his hands off it like it was a yoke.

“My apologies,” Gavin said. In quick glances, he studied the blade again: white and black, seven lambent gems. If he’d been able to see colors, it probably would have been even more impressive.

“How long until they name your replacement?” Gunner asked.

“Men like you and me can’t be replaced, Gunner, only followed.”

A quick flash of a grin. But then, “Answer the question, Six.”

“Prisms and Prisms-elect are traditionally only named on Sun Day. If he or she dies before Sun Day, most of the duties are deferred, and the balancing is accomplished through manual means—that is, drafters around the world being told not to draft as much of one color, but more of another.”

“Good news at last,” Gunner said. Then he spat over the deck. “‘Traditionally’?”

“During wars, four times Prisms have been named early, with the final ceremonies put off until Sun Day.”

“So you could already be replaced?” Gunner said. “Good thing you’re good on an oar, I guess.”

Oh, Gunner was worried that if he didn’t ransom Gavin before another Prism was named, Gavin’s value would go down. Orholam’s sweet saggies, like Gavin was property. The thought clanged, dissonant, the vibrations shaking sand from surfaces that had been smooth, revealing rusty nails beneath the surface. It was one thing to be forced to row. Even to be beaten was hard and infuriating, but nothing more than Gavin had dealt with in training. Sore muscles? He’d had those for five hundred days straight as he’d designed the skimmer. He’d had men and women try to kill him, he’d been hated and feared everywhere he went. But to be a slave?

No, this was an unpleasant land he was visiting. It wasn’t his new home. Good on an oar? He would escape or be rescued, there was no question of it. He wasn’t a rower; he was simply rowing for a time.

Gavin owned slaves. When he saw stray looks on their faces, fear or despair or disgust, he judged whether it was an assassination attempt—and if it wasn’t, he dismissed it. Dismissed them. Because they were beneath his notice.

The only slave he’d treated like she was human was Marissia. He’d been good to her, at least. More than good. He’d been an excellent owner to the slave closest to himself. That had to count for something.

“You’re certain your father doesn’t want you back?” Gunner asked.

“You saw where that sword was, didn’t you?” Gavin asked. He meant when Gunner had fished him out of the water. He didn’t remember it himself, but he’d been told he’d been impaled on the damn thing. “My father put it there.”

That was true, as far as it went. Gavin had taken the dagger into his own chest when he saw it was him or Kip. An odd touch of mad heroics. And now Kip was drowned. Which showed all the good heroics do.

“What do you want?” Gavin asked.

Gunner spread his arms, soaking up the sun. His jacket parted over his sinewy bare chest, and he held the ivory and ebony musket-sword easily. “Gunner wants a legend,” he said.

“You’ve got two. The Sea Demon Slayer? You’ve been a legend since you were six and ten. And you captured me, a legend if there ever was one.”

“If you says so yourself,” Gunner said, grinning.

“I figgered Gunner wouldn’t be one for false modesty,” Gavin shot back.

Gunner paused. “Indeed, no.” He got pensive. Finally, he gestured to his ship, his crew, even his miraculous sword. “It ain’t enough. You understand? Of all of ’em, you understand, don’t you? I was a boy when I did that other. That can’t be the pineapple of my life, can it?”

Gavin didn’t grin at the malapropism. Gunner wouldn’t take even a hint of well-meant mockery, not now.

“It was half luck,” Gunner said. He shook his head. “A man’s more than one act, ain’t he?” But he didn’t wait for Gavin to answer. He pointed to the horizon with grim amusement. “There, you see it?”

Gavin couldn’t see it.

Gunner grunted, looking at Gavin’s chains, but decided to keep him in them. “We’re being followed by a galley. Belongs to one Mongalt Shales. He’s sworn vengeance on me. Two years ago, I was gunner for the famous Captain Giles Tanner. You know him?”

Gavin had to shake his head.

Gunner grunted, like it was a loss, but a digression too far to fill Gavin in. “Pirate, ’course. We found a galley and gave chase, and I made a shot from the long tom. Didn’t just blow the first mate off the wheel—I blew off the wheel. From three hundred paces. Bit of luck to that shot, I admit. Without her bein’ able to turn, fight was over like that. No one else even died.”

“The mate blown off the wheel was Shales’s kin?” Gavin guessed.

“Sister. He’s been following me since. Found me at a bunkhouse in Wiwurgh. Started a fight. I busted out half his teeth. Found me at a whorehouse in Smussato. Challenged me to a duel. I suggested pistols. He said swords. I left him with a dozen cuts and a broken hand. Found me at a tavern in Odess. Challenged me to a duel again. I stickulated that we fire pistols from forty paces. He missed. I shot him in the groin. Winged him, but never heard if I unmanned him or not. He lived, so it can’t have been bad, but I saw blood. Thought that would put him off finally.”