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If he had wanted, Captain Burian Lake could have made his presence known the moment his boat entered the harbor of Port Rival, in the Barbarros Islands. He could have taken control of the dormant little fishing town with little effort, if he had wanted. He was known to raid the vaults of the great merchant ships as they were being loaded. He could take his place at the mayor’s desk in city hall, and have the city council bring him their treasury on silver platters. They would do this because they knew Burian Lake tended to, liked to, leave a trail of dead wherever he went. Because Burian Lake could kill without thinking, without feeling. Without a second thought.
If he had wanted.
But tonight, no one knew of his arrival, and the dock hand was paid well to keep the mooring quiet. The crew on board The Decline of Civilization stayed inside, engines ready and waiting for Lake to get back.
Lake strolled along the streets of the little village until he found the place he was looking for, the city tavern, the Diving Gull. He stepped inside.
The Diving Gull had all of the little nuances of a place that tolerated pirates: low lighting, plentiful drink, placed visibly behind the bar, and lots of little corners and rooms to discuss matters at hand. The clientele were not all pirate, Lake noted. A few colonial guards from Grand Barbarros had mixed in, sitting – wisely – with their backs to the wall, as close to the doors as they could get. They looked nervous, but if they had survived as long as they had up until this point — Lake made a quick tally of the glasses on their table — the worst that would happen to them now would be getting conned out of their uniforms in a game of cards. But they talked to no one but the barkeep, and no one treated them better than everyone would have otherwise.
Lake approached the bar, and pointed to a shiny bottle on the top shelf. The barkeep poured him a glass, and very quickly refused Lake’s gold. His money was no good. Lake pushed the gold piece to the keep. He insisted. He had honor, it was right to pay an honest, hardworking man. The keep pushed the gold piece back to Lake. “Please. You are our honored guest.” His voice trembled when he spoke. He added, “…sir.”
Lake accepted. He stood at the bar — the barkeep saw fit to suddenly invest his attention at the other end of the bar — and made a quick scan of the room. Little groups from several clans were scattered around the tables. Most hung together, each of them wearing their respective clan symbols. Lake could see Barbarros natives, a lion fish emblazoned on their hats or shoulders, sitting in the far corner. They were the most relaxed, leaning back in their chairs, the empty stout bottles of Ambassador Beer, a local favorite, collecting on their table. A couple members of Finley’s clan had started up a game of cards, distinguished by the silhouette of a rooster on their shoulders, and pulled in some of the present members of the Kriegers clan, mashed together in their red, white and black clan colors. There were a few clans that prowled around the Northern Chain, from Lat controlled waters to Ysa-controlled waters, their symbols too unimportant and numerous to Captain Lake’s eyes. And over in a booth, Lake spotted who he was looking for: the Information Traders.
He took a seat in their booth, making them scoot over as he sat down. The leader of the Information Traders stopped mid-sentence, rolling his gaze over to Captain Lake. Lake leaned back, finished his drink, and set it noisily down in front of them. The leader watched him through slitted eyes. Lake watched back. The leader said, “Can I help you?”
Lake tilted his head. “I’m looking for information.”
The leader waved him away. “We’re not selling right now.” He turned back to his crew and started talking again. It was a moment before he realized Captain Lake hadn’t moved, still leaned back in the booth, eyes still fixed on the leader. One of the clansmen’s eyes suddenly grew larger, and he stopped his captain. The leader turned around.
“What is it?”
“I’m waiting.” Captain Lake tilted his head again, still staring down the captain.
“We’re not selling. Now leave.”
The clansman, perhaps a first or second hand, leaned forward and whispered something to his leader. The leader brushed him away.
Captain Lake stayed still.
“Very well,” the leader said. He shot a glance over Lake’s shoulder. “What are you looking for?”
“A package. Rumored to be a painting.
“Do you know how many get moved like that every day-”
“This one’s special,” Lake started. He shifted suddenly, stepping out of the booth as another member of the clan stepped up next to him. The clansman held a knife, ready to stab at Lake. Captain Lake stepped around him, grabbing his arm and pulling it back with a loud, nauseating crack before, almost gently, guiding the knife into the clansman’s shoulder. The clansman screamed, and Captain Lake pushed him down on to the table, holding his hand, and the knife, behind his back.
Captain Lake surveyed his work, and then looked up at the information traders. “This one’s special,” he continued. “I’m talking about Ebe’s Map.”
The leader of the information traders watched, mouth open, a tiny sound of terror escaping. “You’re … you’re Burian Lake.”
“Captain Lake,” he said, narrowing his eyes.
“You’re supposed to be in the South Ocean-”
“The map, captain,” Lake growled.
The leader nodded. He turned to his first mate, who produced a very large book. They opened it on the table as best they could, wedging the book against their clan brother, and started flipping through pages. Charts and cyphers were produced, pages consulted, back to the charts, and then, settling on a figure, they chose what looked like a completely random page. The first mate read off a string of numbers, and one last page flip.
“The map,” the leader started, holding a trembling piece of paper, “Ebe’s Map, was known to be in Lat as of a few days ago. A dock hand recorded it leaving from Port Haven, but she was unable to ascertain its destination.”
Lake grunted. The man underneath his grip whimpered against the knife.
“HOWEVER,” the leader said, watching his crew member, “we know it’s on a boat — which boat it’s on.”
“Go on.”
“It’s owned by a Molyneux.”
A slow creeping smile spread across Lake’s muzzle. “Sounds like a challenge. What’s the name?”
The leader wrote the name on a piece of paper and handed it to Captain Lake. Lake appraised it.
“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you I’ll be back for your services again if this leads to a wrong ship.”
The leader swallowed hard. “Of course not.”
Lake let go of the clansman and tucked the paper in his pocket. “Pleasure,” he said. He looked down at the clansman on the floor. “Your crewman is injured. You should see about that.”
Burian took his leave.
When he was far enough away from the tavern, he broke into a giggle, and then a full out laugh. His laughter followed him all the way to the docks.
“if this lead to a wrong ship”
Check.