He looked at the metal cuff and saw that it closed with a simple latch, impossible to open with the cuffed hand but no obstacle to a man with one hand free. In seconds he unlocked both of his wrist irons, and his ankles followed shortly thereafter.

Dimly he heard the creaking of longboats, the gentle thump of wood against the Falcon's hull. He heard the soft nickering of horses, and he knew that the legion was debarking its lancers. The ache returned to his heart when he realized they would ride to battle without him on the morrow. He remembered Alvarro's gloating grin as the chains had been locked around Hal's limbs. What would be the fate of his beloved lancers under such brutal command?

The light filtering through the overhead beams suddenly disappeared. He heard a cabin door close above, and he noticed that the ship had become perceptibly quieter. Most of the legion must already be ashore.

But what could he do now? He was slightly more comfortable, to be sure, and the exertion of escaping from his irons had distracted him from his despair. Halloran slumped against the bulkhead and thought.

Could he betray the orders of his general? Wasn't it enough that he had been sentenced to this cell? If he escaped, then he truly would be a deserter, worthy of every epithet in the Bishou's vocabulary.

His reverie jerked to a halt as he heard a soft noise. There it was again – a subtle click of metal, coming from the door to his cell. Someone's turning a key in the lock… and he's doing it secretly.

For a moment, his heart lifted with the thought of escape. Then caution took over, and he quickly leaned against the wall, feigning his shackled position. The door swung open, and he caught the unmistakable odor of a horseman. The man stepped into the cell and then closed and locked the door behind him.

Alvarro unshuttered a lamp very slightly, but it was enough to fill the cabin with light. The man's red hair looked black in the shadows, but the dagger in his hand gleamed like true steel.

"You'll die unmourned, traitor!" he hissed, thrusting the dagger toward Hal's chest, knowing his victim was shackled to the wall.

Hal dodged the thrust and punched Alvarro, hard, on the nose. His left fist knocked a precious tooth from the man's already shrunken gums, and the attacker slumped, unconscious, to the deck.

Alvarro's gloved hand fell open, and Hal glimpsed a small key. He grabbed for it, but his aim was errant in the dim light, and the object fell to the floor, slipping between two planks into the bilge before he could catch it.

With a hushed groan, Halloran slumped against the bulkhead. The sudden tingle of victory in mortal combat quickly faded in light of the lost key. And even if he had the key, he wondered, could he bring himself to flee the legion? Where could he go?

But if he stayed, he became Domincus's prisoner, a sop thrown to the cleric by Cordell in compensation for the loss of his daughter. Now he knew the nature of that compensation, and though he had foiled one murderous attempt, how long would his luck last?

The answer was obvious. Perhaps if he could escape, he might even find some way of proving his worth to Cordell. To stay here meant certain death. He picked up Alvarro's knife and stuffed it into his belt. He found a pouch full of gold coins at the man's waist, taking it as just punishment.

Next he examined the door to his cell, finding it locked securely. He had no skill, and no tools to even attempt to pry open the lock.

He bumped his head and suddenly remembered the cracks in the overhead bulkhead. Perhaps the low ceiling might prove to be an asset. Stepping over Alvarro's unconscious body, he felt along the boards. There! What was that? With a careful examination with his fingertips, he recognized the shape of a latch, and soon he had traced the outline of a trapdoor beside it.

It took but a minute to release the catch. Halloran then pushed upward with all of his strength, but he could not make the wooden platform move. Collapsing against the bulkhead, he stared upward in mute frustration. He sensed freedom, if he could but push his way up and out of here.

Awkwardly he braced his feet against the hull and his back against the inside wall. Lifting himself off the floor, he pressed against the trapdoor again, but again it would not move. Angrily he punched the wood, bruising his knuckles. But that time he felt something move. Pushing again, he felt the trapdoor move heavily upward. It had been stuck, the wood moist and moldy with age, and his blow had broken it free. Grunting from the energy of his exertion, he pulled himself upward and squirmed from beneath the trapdoor.

He felt something smothering his face, but he quickly realized that he had emerged underneath a rug. Crawling forward a few feet, he at last felt cool air on his face. In an instant, he pulled free of the rug and stood up, looking about the small cabin.

He found the porthole and threw open the hatch. Harsh white moonlight instantly spilled through the opening, lighting the inside of the cabin. Halloran knew immediately that this was the cabin of the elf-wizard, Darien.

A crowded desk was covered with sheaves of parchment and scrolls. Many candles stood in holders around the room. A small chest on the floor stood open, and within it, he saw the tops of a dozen or more glass vials.

The most interesting feature of the room was the porthole. He estimated that he could squirm through the opening with little difficulty, dropping into the warm water eight or ten feet below. His plan developed quickly: He would swim to shore and find the legion, concealing himself until the battle. Then he would await the proper opportunity to enter the fight and redeem himself.

Of course, that opportunity might not be instantly forthcoming. He suddenly realized that he might be stranded ashore for some time before he would have a chance to confront Cordell under the right circumstances. He would have to prepare for that event.

A bundle of leather caught his eye, and he hefted it, finding a sturdy backpack with a heavy reinforced panel in the bottom. Suppressing a guilty twinge, he took several bottles from the chest of vials, hoping that he could decipher the labels in daylight. He knew enough of magic potions to know that those bottles, if his suspicions were correct, might save his life.

He searched for food but found nothing he could take as rations. He did not want to emerge from the cabin to search the rest of the ship, so he decided to make do with what food he could find ashore. He did find a length of rope and a blanket, both of which he stuffed into the backpack.

Finally he found a large leather bladder, designed to hold water or wine. But it would hold air just as well, and he hung it outside the porthole and inflated it.

Holding the backpack and bladder outside the porthole, he pushed himself forward, twisting slightly to get his broad shoulders through the opening. His legs followed easily, and he slid awkwardly down the hull, striking the water with a loud splash.

For several minutes, he bobbed in the shadow of the high stern, certain the noise of his fall would attract attention. But no sound disturbed the darkness above. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of the legion settling into camp – the barking of hounds, the shouts of officers, the curses of sergeants, and the crude laughter of the men.

Halloran turned away from that sound as he swam across the placid lagoon. Ahead of him beckoned the line of mangaroo trees that marked the edge of Ulatos Delta.

Erix slept lightly on the pallet Tzilla provided, not through any lack of comfort but because of a nagging restlessness that allowed her no peace. She arose before dawn, washing quietly in the clear canal beside the house. She wrapped her mantle around her shoulders and was starting past the house when she heard movement.