circumstances, however, in which it would pay smugglers to off-load beneath the
surf-hammered corniche rather than in the shelter of the cove. For them, the
tunnel might be useful storage; but the smugglers had not built it, and in all
likelihood they had as little knowledge of its intended purpose as Samlor did,
or Hort.
Samlor set down the cask at what he estimated was the halfway point along the
tunnel. The cask had been an awkward burden in the narrow confines, and its
weight of a talent or more was as much as a porter would be expected to carry
for even a moderate distance. Because it used muscles in a way that the punt had
not, however, the hundred yards Samlor had carried the cask were almost
relaxing.
The only thing certain about the escape he hoped to make in a few hours was that
he would have very little time. Now the Cir-donian set the cask on end and drew
his fighting knife. The blade was double-edged and a foot long. It was stout
enough at the cross-hilt to take the shock of a sword and was sharpened to edges
that would hold as they cut bronze, rather than something that its owner could
shave with. Samlor had razors for shaving. The knife was a
different sort of tool.
He set the point at the centre of one of the end-staves, using his left hand to
keep the weapon upright. The butt cap was bronze, flat on top, and a perfect
surface for Samlor to hammer with the heel of his right hand. The blade hummed.
The beechwood cracked and sagged away from the point. Working the knife loose,
Samlor then punched across the grain of the other four end staves as well. The