Free Dangerous Waters by Juliet E. McKenna Page A

was being unshackled. After all, where could a slave run on this island?
    Hosh shook his head. ‘Not yet. Now, come on, you know we have to witness the test. And don’t raise anyone’s hackles by curling your lip,’ he added anxiously.
    Corrain swallowed his anger. Hosh had a point. Too often, Corrain’s height and heft prompted challenges from a slave out to beat down someone taller and stronger to deter other predators.
    Corrain had to fight back and win. Shirking a challenge or being defeated would bring greedy hands to steal his food, jostling shoulders to deny him shelter, until hunger or disease killed him.
    Not that Hosh was much safer. Bullies were drawn to weakness here like anywhere else. Always skinny, now cruelly undernourished, Hosh looked pathetic. Over the winter, half the teeth in his upper jaw had followed those knocked out by the blow that had broken his nose. It was a wonder the lad’s spirit was unbroken.
    Well, Corrain hoped it was. In depths of winter, some rheum in Hosh’s damaged nose had turned to corruption, swelling the whole side of his face. In agony and delirium, Hosh had begged for death’s release.
    Corrain had cursed the boy for a coward. He’d pinned him bodily to the ground to strip him and sluice him with rags soaked in sea water to curb his burning fever. He’d traded his food for days for herbs that an Aldabreshin whore promised would cool Hosh’s blood.
    Mercifully the boy had recovered with no apparent recollection of that piteous plea. Regardless, Corrain stayed alert for any hint he was losing hope. Lose Hosh and how could he sustain his own resolve?
    As he followed the lad through the driftwood huts built between the galley masters’ houses, Corrain scraped a hand through his matted hair, dragging dirty locks out of his eyes. Yet again, he wished fruitlessly for shears, for a razor to be rid of this straggling beard.
    The brushwood soon yielded to taller trees, thrusting straight up, their wood as hard as iron, unlike the twisted spongy trees of the shoreline. Spice plants bruised underfoot sweetened the air. So valuable on the mainland, they grew wild here, disregarded. In days gone by, Corrain had paid good silver to perfume his linen with their essence. Never again, he vowed. When he got home, he’d buy orris root instead.
    Men were gathering from all over the island. Slave or raider, no one ignored such a summons. Only the few women whom the corsairs kept for themselves stayed secluded in the houses and huts. The galley master’s favourites would be preening and adorning themselves while those who traded their cooking skills for some control over the abuse of their bodies would be cooking a sumptuous feast, to celebrate the Red Heron’s return with a cargo of slaves.
    Corrain’s mouth watered despite himself. Once the galley master, the whip master and their fellow brigands had stuffed their bellies, they’d retire behind the window shutters and drink themselves senseless on stolen liquor. Then the slaves could have their masters’ leavings and there would be plenty to go around. This Aldabreshin custom was another degradation that Corrain had to swallow if he ever wanted to sleep with a full stomach.
    He was forced to admit that the Archipelagan food was tasty, especially the fish and goat meat stews spiced with unknown potherbs. As long as he avoided those little red pods floating in the broth. Biting one of those was like chewing a wasp.
    Corrain and Hosh obediently followed the crowd to a hollow some distance from the camp. Far enough for the stench of dead bodies to be carried away on the breeze. Not too far for the ship masters to stagger back to their stolen homes after swilling plundered liquor and laying wagers on men forced to slaughter each other.
    Archipelagans would lay bets on anything. Except, to Corrain’s bemusement, on throws of the runes. He’d not seen a single set of the three-sided bones, as they were named whatever substance they might