Kennit could not help himself. He laughed aloud. It incensed the other man so that his face grew even redder. “You bastard!” he spat. “You heartless bastard!”

Kennit glanced about. It wasn't far to the point of the island now. He could manage it. Once there, if he grew too weary, his coat tied to an oar and waved would bring someone from either the Marietta or the Vivacia. They would be watching for him by now.

“Such language, from a priest! You forget yourself. Here. I'll row for a bit, while you recover.”

That quelled him. Sa'Adar rose from the rowing bench. In a stiff half-crouch, he waited for Kennit to change places with him as he rubbed at his aching back. Kennit tried to rise from his own bench, but sat down again heavily. The small vessel rocked. Sa'Adar cried out and made a wild grab for the gunwales. Kennit grimaced in embarrassment. “Stiff,” he grunted. “Today has taken more out of me than I thought.” He sighed heavily. He narrowed his eyes at the disdainful look on the priest's face. “Still. I said I would row and I shall.” He picked up his crutch, took a firm grip on it, and then extended the tip towards Sa'Adar. “When I give the word, you heave me to my feet. Once I'm up, I'll wager I can move about.”

Sa'Adar gripped the crutch end. “Now,” Kennit told him, and tried to rise. He sat down heavily once more. He set his jaw in grim determination. “Again,” he commanded the priest. “And this time, put your back into it.”

The weary man took a double-handed grip on the crutch. Kennit made better his own clutch upon it. “Now!” he commanded him. As the priest heaved, the pirate suddenly thrust forward, shoving with all his strength upon the crutch. It hit the priest in the chest and he went flailing wildly backwards. Kennit had hoped for a clean splash overboard. Instead, the man fell athwart the gunwales, almost out of the boat but not quite. Quick as a tiger springing, Kennit flung himself forward. He kept his weight low, as the landsman had not. He gripped one of Sa'Adar's feet and lifted it high. The man went over, but as he went he launched a kick at Kennit that slammed his bare foot hard into Kennit's face. Kennit's head rocked back on his shoulders; he felt the warm gush as blood flowed from his nose. He wiped it hastily on his sleeve, then scrabbled to the rower's bench and took up the oars. He seated the oars well in the oarlocks and began to pull mightily.

An instant later, the priest's head bobbed up in the boat's wake. “Damn you!” he shouted. “Sa damn you!”

Kennit expected the man's head to go under again. Instead, he struck out after the boat with long powerful strokes. So, he was a swimmer. Kennit had not reckoned on that. It was a pity the sea was warmer here in these island waters. He couldn't count on cold to kill him quickly. He might have to do it himself.

Kennit did not strain. Instead, he set a steady pace and pulled on the oars. He had not lied to Sa'Adar. He had been stiff, but this was loosening him up. The priest swam with the swift, frantic strokes of a desperate man.

He was gaining on the small boat; his body offered far less resistance to the waves than the lightened boat did. When he was within a stroke or two, Kennit carefully shipped the oars and drew the dagger from his belt. He moved to the stern and waited. He did not try for a killing stroke. He would have had to extend himself too far to do that easily and might end up being dragged into the sea by the priest. Instead, each time the drowning man reached for the boat, he slashed at his hands. He cut his reaching palms, he slashed the back of his knuckles when his grip closed on the stern. Kennit was silent as death itself while the priest cursed him, screamed, and then begged for his life. When he seized hold of the side and clung there stubbornly, the pirate risked a blinding slash across the man's face. Still he clutched the side, begging and praying to be allowed to live. It infuriated Kennit. “I tried to let you live!” he roared at him. “All you had to do was what I wanted you to do. You refused me! So!”

He risked a stab and the dagger went deep into the side of the man's throat. In an instant, his hands were warm and slick with blood thicker and more salt than the sea itself. The priest fell away suddenly. Kennit released the haft of the dagger and let him go. For a wave, then two, he bobbed facedown on the water. Then the sea swallowed him up.

Kennit sat for a time, watching the empty water behind the boat. Then he wiped his hands down the front of his coat. Slowly he moved back to the rower's bench. He took up the oars in hands that had begun to blister. It didn't matter. They would hurt, but it did not matter. It was done, and he would live. He knew it as surely as he knew his luck still rode with him.