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Admiral Bryce’s Autobiography, 20 P.C.
As seconds gave way to minutes, Francis realized that Saint Agnes wasn’t going to respond, at least not now.
He was under no illusion, however; she must’ve heard it, even observed his surroundings, and figured there was no need to respond.
Unsure of what to do next, Francis simply sat next to the harbor, watching the bustle with a disinterested look.
Now what?
It was nothing short of an unenviable predicament. Had it not been for him carrying what little he had, he wouldn’t have been able to afford a room over his head that night.
He could find work at a bar—he was no stranger to wiping mugs, after all. Hauling cargo was a nice option, too, as his blessings made him far stronger than most. He could even chase bounties, assuming he gathered enough intel about his targets.
There was no point, however. None of that was fulfilling, at least not now. He needed answers, closure, anything other than alienation in a foreign island.
As if on cue, the solitude didn’t last long, as the fisherman from before walked towards him.
“Hello, stranger! We meet again,” the old man said enthusiastically.
Yeah, I’m sure it’s a coincidence.
“Greetings,” Francis replied flatly.
“No offense on my behalf, but why are you loitering around these parts?” the stranger asked, seemingly intrigued.
Francis was half tempted to tell him the truth, but if last night’s experience was anything to go by, the truth was more potent than Stanzas.
“Boredom, truly,” Francis managed. “I came to this island on a passenger ship hoping to find something interesting, but I’m afraid the place hasn’t delivered yet.”
He wasn’t sure whether the old man suspected anything, and the latter’s reaction didn’t say much.
“Yeah, Orange Town is one giant inn, after all.”
“Grenada sounds more promising, I heard,” Francis replied, trying to fish for information.
The lonesome wanderer then thought:
Oh dear fisherman.
How does it feel to be on the receiving end of the net?
Pleasant it is not, I bet
... kill me.
“Assuming you’re an adventurer, that is,” the fisherman said with a half-toothless grin. “Are you?”
“You got me,” Francis said in mock surrender, inwardly cursing that he’s the one who got fished. The more he spoke to the man, the surer he was that he wasn’t normal.
If only I had shown the same restraint yesterday.
“Anything interesting you would like to share with me?” the man said, now sitting on the floor, dust and grime a secondary thought.
Francis had nothing to speak of, at least nothing he personally experienced. His Saint Agnes saga was certainly worthy of a poem, but it wasn’t for suspicious ears.
“I remember coming across a ship that was empty,” he finally replied, recalling what his crewmates discussed.
“On shore?” the man asked, evidently curious.
“In the middle of the ocean,” Francis explained. “When my... mates went inside, they found everything intact, save for the sailors.”
His diction might’ve been hard for most, but the fisherman already demonstrated that he was no peasant.
“Must be the Shanty of Enthral,” the stranger replied with a contemplative look.
Francis’ ears rang.
“Pardon?” he said, voice shaky. The only person who came to that conclusion as fast was... Saint Agnes.
“What?” the man replied in confusion. “You’re an adventurer, and yet you don’t know about the Shanties?”
Know was an understatement; Francis felt them, but the man had no reason to know.
“I... It’s just,” Francis feigned nervousness. “You can’t just mention such a thing so casually!”
“Why not?” the man looked confused.
“That’s not something you should be caught discussing,” Francis explained, half convinced that the man was messing with him.
“Sure I can!” the man exclaimed. “I have been doing it for years.”
Francis was now fully convinced that it was a facade. “Right. I’m glad nothing bad happened to you.”
The man grinned again and nodded.
“Say,” Francis said, attempting to switch dynamics. “Assuming I was a bounty hunter, where can I go to find intel?”
“Gazpachos is where you should head,” the man replied, beaming.
“Gazpachos,” Francis said flatly. First Orange Town, now Gazpacho. What was next? Paella Harbor?
“Indeed. Place serves the best intel in town,” the fisherman said enthusiastically. “And ale, but that’s secondary.”
At least I got something out of this morbid conversation.
“Thanks, gramps,” Francis said as he got up.
“You can call me Xavier,” the stranger said, seemingly offended.
Francis nearly gave his name, then thought better of it. “Pleasure. Mine is Yves.”
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
***
It took Francis a while to find the bar, but it was probably for the best. Asking the strange man for directions might’ve landed him in a trap akin to the one from yesterday. The thought then made him realize how paranoid he had grown. He even went as far as giving a fake name. He knew it was necessary, of course, but it was still a hassle.
As he entered the establishment, he noticed half the bar gazing back, undoubtedly sizing up the newcomer. Francis, in turn, walked straight to the counter, pretending the lingering gazes didn’t exist.
“Where from?” the bartender asked, highlighting how much he stuck out.
Saying Saint Agnes would’ve probably implicated him in one or another, thus he decided to lie once more.
“Nueva Sevilla.”
“Which one?” the bartender said with a raised brow.
“The 67th,” Francis replied with a chuckle, resulting in the man laughing as well.
“You got humor. Hard to come by that around here,” he said as he wiped a tear. “What can I get you?”
Intel.
“Ale would do.”
“Ale it is, then,” the man said, before swiftly filling a wooden mug and handing it to him. “Two copper.”
The one back home cost one, but there was no use arguing, so Francis handed the man his coins and took a sip.
Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t long before someone approached. “Does the gentleman want anything else?”
“Depends on what’s available on the menu,” Francis replied, not eyeing the other person.
“One Dirty Fang. One Ironhook,” the man paused. “And one Barbarossa.”
The prospect of chasing one of the first two was promising, as their bounties weren’t much to speak of. Chasing Barbarossa, however, was the equivalent of hanging oneself.
“Anything I should know about the... ingredients of the first dish?” he replied, keeping the same diction.
“Rumor has it that it is succulent in a way that raises the dead.”
What is he talking about?
Francis’ awkward silence must’ve caught the man’s attention, as he sighed softly before edging closer. “Supplicant of the Demise Shanty.”
“I see,” Francis said, a little embarrassed that he didn’t catch it. “How much should I pay for the meal?”
He slowly counted using his fingers. “40 silver in advance, and another 60 once it’s done.”
If Francis’ math was to go by, that would be 10% of the bounty in advance, and 25% in total. Not bad, all things considered.
“Deal,” he said simply. “Mind delivering the... recipe now?”
The man wasted no time as he quickly fiddled with a few parchments before handing one in exchange for the coins.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” he said as he got up and pushed deeper into the establishment.
Francis had no other reason to stay, but he figured leaving too early would give the wrong message; thus, he lingered despite the monotony.
Bored in a bar… haven’t I felt this before?
Life was certainly a cruel joke, one that used Francis as its punchline. It didn’t matter much, however. Not when he was a dead man walking.
***
As most of the patrons left, Francis prepared to bid the bartender farewell and find a place to sleep, at least until he stopped him.
“Didn’t expect you to be a bounty hunter,” the young man said in amusement.
“Is it my slim figure?” Francis replied, equally as amused.
“Partially,” the bartender said in thought. “But you also radiate a... scholarly aura, does that make sense?”
That in turn made Francis laugh. “Scholarly aura. Aren’t you a scholar yourself?”
“Not really,” the man said, tone turning bitter. “I had to stop going to school once my father died.”
The sudden change of atmosphere flustered Francis, but he quickly adjusted.
“What about your mother?” he asked solemnly.
“Not the type to work in a bar, I’m afraid. Still, at least the old man kept a business, so there is that,” he said, undoubtedly realizing that he made him uncomfortable. “What about you, though? You look like you have quite the story to tell.”
Francis did, but he was only willing to share what didn’t cause him to implode on the spot.
“Would you believe me if I said I was a bartender for a decade?”
“Nonsense!” the man exclaimed.
“Dead serious.”
The bartender essentially squicked. “We’re buddies!”
“Mug-wiping buddies,” Francis replied as he made a wiping motion.
The encounter seemed to lighten the mood once more. “I’m Bertrand, what about you?”
Francis nearly made a joke, but he refrained.
“Yves,” he replied simply, already growing comfortable with the pseudonym.
“Bartender and French?” the young man laughed. “What are you? My doppelganger?”
It was hilarious indeed, at least enough for Francis to laugh harder than he did for a while.
“That’s why I became a bounty hunter, actually. I figured one of us was more than enough.”
The two continued laughing for a moment longer before Bertrand grew serious once more. “Can I ask for a favor, Yves?”
Here it comes.
“Sure.”
“My younger sister...” he said hesitantly. “She recently entered the intel trade, but I’m afraid she might be playing with fire. What do you think I should do?”