The scene at the docks, office of the Harbor Master, a few days ago:
"I need a ship....or passage on one."
Words uttered evenly without expression of feeling yet colored by a Spanish accent, coming from a tall dark form of a man who stood blocking the doorway with his frame, making an eclispe of the light, until he moved and stepped into the quarters of the harbor master. The scratchings of quill against parchment never ceased, the routund sweaty body bent over the ledgers of his business never straightened, as the harbor master spat back, "Which be ta yer likin' an' where be ye bound fer?" He was used to all manner of men from all walks of life interrupting him for one demand or another, this was just another one, hardly worth his time, except he might make a dime or two out of the deal. Might being the operative word that would make him sit up and pay attention.
Or not.
There was a moment's hesitation before the same voice uttered calmly back the one-word answer.
"Hell."
The harbor master grunted in response, but did pause in his figures, to raise his head and squint quizically at the man.
"There ye be already, Sir. Ye'll hae to choose another port."
He studied the man as he waited for a more conclusive request.
But the Spaniard said nothing more. A moment of silence was all that filled the space between them, until the harbor master suddenly laid down his pen and with a surprising burst of agiliness, departed his stool to stand, hands on hips, regarding the man.
"Say. I know who ye be." Nodding, he walked back around to the desk and disappeared behind it, toning up his voice a notch to be heard. "Ye be wanting passage to Carthia, where ye wife was bound fer, not near a fortnight gone past, I'm sure. Let me see what I can come up with here." His hands deftly shuffled the leather books stacked beneath the podium, reading the writings on the front of one, then putting it back, before pulling out the next.
"No."
"No? But yer wife...."
"No."
The portly man stood to gaze at Antonio. "Are ye not Senor Sabatier, married to the Lady Gabriella, who booked passage to Carthia a few weeks ago?"
"I am not going to Carthia."
"Where to, then, Sir?"
The Spaniard had thought this through. He knew quite clearly what his course of action was now to be. Logically, he should book passage to the Tarsos. Yet well known he was there and peace would not be his to command. And that was the same reason he would not sail home to Spain. Not yet.
There was a place, believed to lay in ruins, which would be perfect. No one would dare to cross the sea to such a place, no one would dare to ascend the hills to what lay in waiting high above, no one believed the place even existed anymore. As far as anyone knew, it had been blown to kingdom come months ago, and there was nothing left of it. It lay at the bottom of the sea, in pieces and parts, a watery grave for the evil that it had spawned.
The thin line of Antonio's rigid mouth rose at one corner into a savage smirk as his eyes narrowed in wait for reaction and his voice crooned the word....
"Halech."
"I need a ship....or passage on one."
Words uttered evenly without expression of feeling yet colored by a Spanish accent, coming from a tall dark form of a man who stood blocking the doorway with his frame, making an eclispe of the light, until he moved and stepped into the quarters of the harbor master. The scratchings of quill against parchment never ceased, the routund sweaty body bent over the ledgers of his business never straightened, as the harbor master spat back, "Which be ta yer likin' an' where be ye bound fer?" He was used to all manner of men from all walks of life interrupting him for one demand or another, this was just another one, hardly worth his time, except he might make a dime or two out of the deal. Might being the operative word that would make him sit up and pay attention.
Or not.
There was a moment's hesitation before the same voice uttered calmly back the one-word answer.
"Hell."
The harbor master grunted in response, but did pause in his figures, to raise his head and squint quizically at the man.
"There ye be already, Sir. Ye'll hae to choose another port."
He studied the man as he waited for a more conclusive request.
But the Spaniard said nothing more. A moment of silence was all that filled the space between them, until the harbor master suddenly laid down his pen and with a surprising burst of agiliness, departed his stool to stand, hands on hips, regarding the man.
"Say. I know who ye be." Nodding, he walked back around to the desk and disappeared behind it, toning up his voice a notch to be heard. "Ye be wanting passage to Carthia, where ye wife was bound fer, not near a fortnight gone past, I'm sure. Let me see what I can come up with here." His hands deftly shuffled the leather books stacked beneath the podium, reading the writings on the front of one, then putting it back, before pulling out the next.
"No."
"No? But yer wife...."
"No."
The portly man stood to gaze at Antonio. "Are ye not Senor Sabatier, married to the Lady Gabriella, who booked passage to Carthia a few weeks ago?"
"I am not going to Carthia."
"Where to, then, Sir?"
The Spaniard had thought this through. He knew quite clearly what his course of action was now to be. Logically, he should book passage to the Tarsos. Yet well known he was there and peace would not be his to command. And that was the same reason he would not sail home to Spain. Not yet.
There was a place, believed to lay in ruins, which would be perfect. No one would dare to cross the sea to such a place, no one would dare to ascend the hills to what lay in waiting high above, no one believed the place even existed anymore. As far as anyone knew, it had been blown to kingdom come months ago, and there was nothing left of it. It lay at the bottom of the sea, in pieces and parts, a watery grave for the evil that it had spawned.
The thin line of Antonio's rigid mouth rose at one corner into a savage smirk as his eyes narrowed in wait for reaction and his voice crooned the word....
"Halech."