Wesley let out a small laugh. “All right, Seaman Melborn, how do you propose we sneak down to the harbor, capture a ship loaded with Ghazel warriors, and sail it out of a bay past an armada when we can’t even get out of this locked cell?”

Royce gave the door a gentle push and it swung open. “I unlocked it while you were ranting,” he said.

Wesley’s face showed his astonishment. “You’re not just a seaman, are you?”

“Wait here,” Royce said, slipping out.

He was gone for several minutes. They heard no sound. When he returned, Poe, Derning, Grady, Dilladrum, and the Vintu followed. Royce had blood on his dagger and a ring of keys in his hand.

“What about the others?” Wesley asked.

“Don’t worry, I won’t forget about them,” Royce said with a devilish grin. When he left, the others followed. A guard lay dead in a pool of blood and Royce was already at the door of the last cell.

“We don’t need to be released,” Defoe said from behind the door. “I could open it myself if I wanted to get out.”

“I’m not here to let you out,” Royce said, opening the door.

Bernie backed up and drew his dagger.

“Stay out of this, Bernie,” Royce told him. “So far you’ve just been doing a job. I get that, but stand between me and Thranic and it gets personal.”

“Seaman Melborn!” Wesley snapped. “I can’t let you kill Mr. Thranic.”

Royce ignored him and Wesley appealed to Hadrian, who shrugged in response. “It’s a policy of mine not to get in his way, especially when the other guy deserves it.”

Wesley turned to Wyatt, whose expression showed no compassion. “He burned a shipload of elves and, for all I know, was responsible for taking my daughter. Let him die.”

Dr. Levy stepped aside, leaving Thranic alone at the back of the cell with only his dagger for protection. By his grip and stance, Hadrian knew the sentinel was not a knife fighter. Thranic was sweating, his eyes tense as Royce moved in.

“Might I ask why you’re killing Mr. Thranic?” Bulard asked suddenly, stepping between them. “Those of you intent on fleeing could make better use of your time than butchering a man in his cell, don’t you think?”

“Won’t take but a second,” Royce assured him.

“Perhaps, perhaps, but I’m asking you not to. I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve death, but who are you to grant it? Thranic will die, and quite soon, I suspect, given where we’re headed. Regardless, our mission is vital not just to the empire, but to all of mankind, and we’ll need him if we’re to have any hope to complete it.”

“Shut up, you old fool,” the sentinel growled.

This caught Royce’s attention, though he kept his eyes on Thranic. “What mission?”