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If you want to save your life, throw off that stolen uniform and the blade, and throw it into the water. Now.
Chakka’s advice made sense. Ferethor, driven as he was by a fit of desperation, had retained enough of his reason to see that indeed he had no other choice. He was always the headstrong one. Linvail had been there to check him until now, but this time… He compressed his mouth into a thin line, but did as the man suggested. A simple procedure, casting off his seaman’s uniform and bundling it so that it wouldn’t float, the knife buried in it, and dumping it in the blue seas.
“Linvail,” Ferethor said quickly, hearing the pounding of the steel-tipped boots getting closer, and completely unaware that he just addressed Chakka as Linvail, “If you are on the other side, then why?” Why save his life? Because they’d have killed him where he stood if Chakka had not urged him to take the right measures at the time. He was forced to acknowledge this, despite his pride. But then the guards came, and he gave up without the slightest bit of resistance – by blade, or by oar, he was not one to give up – just change tactics.
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