The oars chunked loudly on the water, as number sixty-six was stirred from her reverie by the loud crack of the whip above her head. Startled, she bent her back obligingly and set to work, hauling sharply on the long wooden pole. The slavedriver grinned wickedly and hit her this time, knocking her back against the bulkhead. Sixty-six scrambled to her feet and tried to back away, but was held by the chain. He might have slapped her again but a crewmate skipped down the warped stairs and gave a hasty acknowledgement to the slavemaster. "I've got news fer you from th' Cap'n."
Grumbling to himself, the slavemaster wound the whip around his arm and turned on him. "Git it out o' yer, then. I can see it's itchen you something awful. It's not oft'n the Cap'n sends word to me official-like." He gave Sixty-six a hate-laden glance, and she knew why. For three months she had been on this vessel, and in those three months, she had strangled more than five men with her chains. Five of the oarmaster's best henchmen. She dropped her eyes; after all, they had broken her. She knew who was boss on the ship. She was the bottom of the pecking order, and the Captain was the top. In all situations, the top will always meet the bottom.
"It's one of the slaves again. Number sixty-six by the sound of it."
"Aye, and she's the worst of them."
"She, sir?"
"Aye, and she's taken five of my best men to boot hill. Take her and good riddance, I say."
"It dinnae sound anything like that, sir," the crewmate said, his eyes resting on Sixty-six's bloodied hands. "He wants a talk with him -- her, is all."
"He'd better be warned I'll kill her soon!" the oarmaster snarled, unhooking Sixty-six from the running chain and handing her tracer to the deckhand. "Take 'er and be gone, and keep a dagger in her ribs if you want to save your skin." He added a string of complimentary curses.
Sixty-six looked like she might resist, but a prick in the spine with the fellow's blade started her moving. She winked at the oarslave behind her, and her signal was passed on via prearranged ways.
"Git movin'," the mate said, prodding her harshly. She might be a girl, but he was no fool. A live girl was worth her weight in work, a dead one was worth nothing.
When they emerged on deck, she spotted a disterbance among the pirates. "Two of 'em! Headed dead on to starb'd!" shouted the man in the eagles nest. Sailors packed the deck, and in the commotion, Sixty-six strangled her captor and wrapped the chains around mast. Soon enough they would discover what had been done, but she had no wish for them to.
As the two ships grew nearer, they were determined to be the Treasure and the Falling Star, both enemies and rivals. And by their current path, they had no intention of avoiding conflict. In such conflict, Sixty-six knew she would end up loser despite whoever won. It was the custom of pirates to abscond with the slave crews of rival ships and sell them elsewhere, leaving their enemies helpless.
Sixty-six gritted her teeth and swung her long chains in an arc and cleared a path to the starboard rail, stopping long enough to snap them off of her wrists where she had been filing the links thinner secretly, by smashing them against a metal cannon. Then she plunged twenty feet into the icy seas, chancing herself against mother nature rather than luck. Deep into the waves she dove, until bubbles raced past her face and her head broke the surface. Taking a deep breath, she dove again, taking twenty strokes before she came up again. Looking up, she saw the two ships bearing down on her. Seasoned fighters were whirling grappling hooks, and she went under again, coming up fifty yards away. The seas were rough, and she was spotted, drifting nearby some flotsam. Instantly, she knew she had to escape. She had been prisoner far too long. Vanishing into the water, she went under the Treasure and came up between the two allied ships. She could have touched Falling Star's wooden hull had she wanted to. Looking up, she saw someone silhouetted against the rail. She took another breath and prepared to dive.
