Free The Empire Stone by Chris Bunch

where he’d make cuts, then glued the stone into a little cup. His “working” stone was used to cut a groove into the first diamond along the ink cuts. With his specially made cleaving knife, he made ready to cut the diamond.
    About to strike the knife with an iron rod that’d been a cell bar, he whispered a prayer, aimed at whatever god or gods reigned in this land that he didn’t much believe in. He was sweating slightly, just as he did whenever he made the first cut on a stone.
    Peirol was very glad that he had never had to cut a great diamond, remembering the legend about the master cutter given a great stone who studied it, its lines, its grain, for a year, readied himself for the first cut, made it perfectly, and fell dead from the strain. Peirol didn’t believe the story and had a perfectly strong heart; but still, he was glad he hadn’t yet had to test it.
    He struck, and the diamond split as he wanted. Again he made a cut, and another cut, checking each facet. Then all that remained was to polish the stone with diamond dust and olive oil, detail the silver and cut its center out, and set the stone, and it would be ready as bait.
    But the next dawn there was a tumult, and the slaves were turned out. Lord Kanen was ready to put to sea, on another pre-season raid, and Peirol’s education began.
    • • •
    A wing — ten galleys — pulled away from the wharf, Peirol’s galley, the
Ocean Spell
, flanking Lord Kanen’s
Slayer.
There was chanting from magicians afloat and ashore, and bands blared, and smoke of many colors plumed up from the harbor forts, gathered together, twisted and showed a magical sign of great good luck.
    Peirol was told he was lucky not being assigned to Lord Kanen’s galley, since the lord loved battle even more than gold and insisted his ship always be in the forefront. He was not
that
lucky, because he was taken by Callafo, Kanen’s wizard, who was almost as battle-thirsty as his master, but who loudly said that dwarves were lucky.
    Peirol was wondering where the hells these tales about dwarves came from. He’d heard none on the moors of Cenwalk nor in Sennen, and he thought wryly that anyone who considered his current state certainly should doubt the validity of the claim.
    He learned other names to dread: the oarmaster, Barnack; the captain of the guard, Runo, and the ship captain, Penrith. The latter, he was told, seldom deigned to worry about galley slaves, “but ye’re doomed if he does.” But Callafo and Barnack were the most dreaded, Barnack because he was their immediate master and punisher; Callafo because he loved to see the lash come down, and would delight in having an oarsman whipped for any reason, or for no reason whatsoever. Callafo considered it a special delight if the slave died under the lash, and had been heard to say it would help his magic.
    There were five slaves to a bench, the bench extending somewhat over the sleek side of the galley on the wooden superstructure. Along the outboard side of this decking was a huge thole pin beside each bench. The oars were in three pieces, the blade being separate, the shaft being in two parts, lashed around the thole pin, then the inner third, which would be lighter than the other pieces, with iron cleats for the oarsmen to pull on. An argument could always be made as to what kind of wood was best for the oars, but the longest-serving slaves held for beech, for its strength and flexibility. That mattered, because a lesser wood might be snapped by a storm wave and the jagged end flail the benches like a huge, murderous club.
    Each slave was manacled at the ankle, a chain leading to a staple firmly mounted in the bench. Rowers stood, or in the case of the outer oarsmen, half-bent, pulling until they came back against the bench, leaned far back, then pushing down and coming back to their feet, bringing the oar forward for the next stroke. Slaves argued endlessly, in whispers, one eye cocked for the oarmaster and his whip,