The lad was faithful, but always looking over his shoulder; trembling so that it was nearly impossible to get two consecutive words from him, by which it came about that there was no plan for Rodvard’s escape when the word was that Charalkis Head had come in sight. The ship would lie that night in the harbor of Mancherei’s brick-built capital, and what counsel now? Shifting his feet like a dancer, Krotz said he thought Rodvard might easily slip past the deck-guard into the water; but this scheme split on the fact that he lacked the skill of swimming. All was still undecided that night; a sharp sword of apprehension pricked his fitful sleep, nor were matters amended when he was fully roused by hammerings over the doors of his prison. Kjermanash voices sounded their customary cackle. A shaft of light struck down, so brilliant that Rodvard’s dark-hooded eyes could scarcely bear it, and he shrank back along the cask-alley, hands over face. It was not the best means of hiding; down swung one of the Kjermanash to fix the tackle for lifting out the cargo, gave a whoop and pounced, being presently joined by other sailors. There was much laughter and excited talk in their own language; they patted Rodvard and tweaked the long-grown hair on his face, then urged him up the ladder deckward, with “Key-yip! Kee-yup!” and a sheath-knife that banged him in the crotch from behind as he climbed, blinking. At the top he stumbled out on a deck where the mate stood, wrinkling eyes against the sun. “Puke-face, by the Service! I thought you had been fish-farts long ago. Ohé, captain! Here’s your cheating mechanician!” Now Rodvard noticed that Captain Betzensteg was a few paces beyond, talking to a man in a decent grey jacket and a red-peaked hat, but wearing no badge of status. The one-eyed monster turned, and his full lips twisted. “Put him in the lazarette with chains, since he’s so slippery. Well have the trial at sea.” The single eye looked on Rodvard (and it said one thing only—“Death.”) The young man staggered; he cried desperately: “I appeal.” “A captain’s judge on his own ship. I reject your appeal. Take him away.” Said the man in grey; “A moment, Ser Captain. This is not good law for the dominion of Mancherei, in whose authority you now stand. We have one judge that stands above every mortal protestation, that is, the God of love, whose law was set forward by our Prophet.” The captain snarled, black and sour; “This is my ship. I order you to leave it.” The man in the grey jacket had a thin, ascetic face. One eyebrow jagged upward; “This is our port. I order you to leave it without discharging a single item of your cargo.” “You dare not. Our Queen—” “Has no rule in Mancherei. That was tried out at the time of the Tritulaccan war. Young ser, what is the ground of your appeal to our law?”