Reaching the gunwale, Gavin found that the boarding nets weren’t simply held grapnel to wood, which would have allowed him to pull the grapnel off and let the net drop. Instead, the grapnels were looped around the railing and tied back to themselves, then anchored to the wood railing. Bad news. But that loop held the hemp rope tight against the gunwale. Gavin slashed the rope, and it yielded on the second stroke. He looked down the length of the ship. There were four more grapnels. Four widths of hemp between him and freedom.

Four galley slaves had tackled a pirate at midships and were pummeling him to death with fists and feet. Antonius was charging for the farthest rope—smart boy—leaving Gavin to face another sword-wielding pirate. Out of the corner of his eye, Gavin saw a pirate with a musket taking aim at him as he ran, so he did a running slide, dropping to one hip to skim along the deck and then popping up with the sword wielder between him and the musket man.

Even as Gavin engaged with the swordsman, he saw other pirates jumping onto the nets, coming back to the Bitter Cob. He was running out of time. His saber and the pirate’s thinner forward-curving ataghan clanged together, and Gavin was aware how long it had been since he’d practiced fencing. How long it had been since he needed it. But a pirate was really merely a sailor willing to kill. That wasn’t the same as a trained warrior. Gavin saw two wide opportunities for deadly thrusts go by—and he was too slow to take advantage, too cautious to press an advantage.

But a third came. Riposte and kill, the saber slipping into his opponent’s chest only deep enough to open his heart, and then pulling back. Gavin stepped back to avoid the possible counterstroke—just because a man was going to die within seconds didn’t mean he couldn’t kill you in the meantime.

He realized that by stepping back, he was clearing the shot for the musket man, and he slapped the swordsman’s blade aside once more and grabbed the man under the armpits even as he heard the musket fire. The man jerked, taking the ball in the shoulder right between Gavin’s fingers. At least, he hoped it was between his fingers. All he could tell for the moment was that his index finger of his right hand felt hot.

He dropped the still-twitching body, found his finger bleeding, but still there, and slashed the rope where it crossed the gunwale.

A pirate was coming down the boarding rope more nimbly than Gavin would have believed, walking upright, stepping from rope to rope with the agility of a dancer—and fast. But the rope parted on the first cut, and the boarding net sagged suddenly. The man jumped, hands stretching to reach the gunwale and—just making it. The shock of colliding with the hull didn’t shake the man loose, either.

Gavin slapped his blade down on the gunwale and eight fingers popped up in response.

A short scream and a satisfying splash signaled success.

“Row!” Gavin shouted as he crossed over the gap that had been blown in the deck by the cannon fire. But they were already on it, oars rattling out, first pushing off the ship, stretching the boarding net.

There were two grapnels left—and with a snap, the slaves aft freed one. It left only one at midships. Gavin ran for it.

Wood shrapnel exploded around him from musket balls. A pirate leapt off the boarding net, and Gavin slashed his groin open, not even slowing. He saw a pirate finish loading a swivel gun on the deck of the other ship and turn it toward him. He dove as it spewed death onto the lower ship.

Gavin rolled to his feet, groped to find the saber he’d lost in his dive.

“Guile! Guile!” a familiar voice shouted. Gunner.

Gavin looked up, already knowing what he would see. Gunner stood, not twenty paces away, that magnificent black-and-white musket leveled at Gavin’s face. From that distance, Gunner couldn’t miss.

The oars dipped into the waves, but the inertia of the loaded Bitter Cob meant it would be seconds before they moved with any speed.

The saber was in Gavin’s hand. If Gunner shot him in the head, he wouldn’t be able to complete the stroke. He would die for nothing. But if Gunner shot him in the chest—the safer shot—Gavin could trade his life for the slaves’ freedom.

What was the value of a few slaves compared to a Prism? What was the value of a thousand slaves compared to a Prism? What would the world gain if Gavin chose to make this sacrifice?

Nothing.

“You do what you have to,” Gavin said, to himself as much as to Gunner.

He slashed the rope, expecting a musket ball to tear through his body. It didn’t. He’d braced so much for the impact that he didn’t cut the rope on the first stroke. He slashed again, and it parted. The boarding net dropped into the water, scattering pirates.

Gavin looked at Gunner. The man still had his musket leveled, as if unsure himself why he hadn’t fired. Gunner looked to the horizon. Gavin followed his eyes.

The ship that had been pursuing Gunner for years was there. In the fight, the Bitter Cob had sheared off all the oars on one full side of the galley Gunner was now on.

Gunner wouldn’t be able to flee from the vengeful captain hunting him. And with his pirates decimated and probably out of ammunition, there was no way his crew could win the fight.

Not killing Gavin meant Gunner would die himself. What the hell? The man was bordering on insane, but all his insanity went toward serving himself, didn’t it?

With an oath Gavin couldn’t hear, Gunner lowered his musket. His head bobbed as he swore a dozen expletives in succession. His eyes were darting back and forth, but Gavin couldn’t guess what he was doing. Then something arced out over the water—a spear? Gavin jumped backward as the musket-sword fell from the sky in a streak and clattered to the deck not far from him.

What?

The Bitter Cob’s slaves dipped their oars again, and the boat began moving at a decent rate, opening the gap between the boats, leaving pirates without any more powder at the gunwales of the other ship, cursing and looking baffled.

A wave tilted the galley and the musket-sword started sliding toward a gap where the gunwale had been shot off.

Gavin dove and grabbed the musket before it could fall into the sea. He stood.

Then he saw a disturbance on the other boat. A pirate was jostled so hard he fell off the side as someone—not someone, Gunner—sprinted along its side. As the boats separated, the waves shifted them so they sat nearly stern to prow, and Gunner ran straight toward the prow of the crippled ship, launched off the gunwale and leapt into the air, shouting something that may have been, “Fuck you, Ceres!”

For an instant, Gavin thought the crazy pirate was actually going to clear the gap. He soared through the air, arms and legs wheeling—and plunged into the sea with a splash.

Gavin ran to the stern. The galley slaves didn’t pause in their long sweeps, and the gap widened, and widened. When Gavin got to the stern, he saw several pirates in the water, but none of them was Gunner. Then he looked down.

Pulled along in the water by a rope trailing from the Bitter Cob’s deck, Gunner was climbing hand over hand. He reached a loading ladder at the back and climbed up deftly. Gavin waited at the top, musket-sword nearly forgotten.

Gunner reached the top of the ladder, shook his head to clear his beard and eyes of seawater, and extended a hand to Gavin. “What are you waiting for?” he asked. “Help Gunner up. He spared your life.” And he grinned his mad, mad grin.

Chapter 36