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"Visitors," I said. "We just arrived, and we wanted to see the ships "
"Not dressed like that, ye ain't, missy."
"Our outfits may be somewhat anachronistic," Kristof said. "Yet certainly no worse than others we've
seen so far." He glanced over the pirate's stained and ragged ensemble. "Excepting your own fine
attention to period detail, of course."
The pirate's lip curled. "Don't give a damn about yer britches, lad. It's hers that's t'problem. No wimmin
pirates allowed here. Only wenches."
"Wenches?" I said.
"That may be your usual policy," Kristof said. "It may also explain the notable lack of female
companionship available in your fine town. Might I suggest you reconsider "
"I'm not reconsidering anything, lad. Either she changes herself into a proper wench, or ye best be
reconsidering staying in La Ceiba."
Kristof opened his mouth to argue, but I shushed him with a look. Flexibility is the key to progress. So I
slipped behind the nearest hut, and made a few minor alterations to my costume. The shirt, boots, and
earrings stayed. The breeches gave way to a peasant skirt. A few necklaces and I looked as darned
wenchy as I was getting. As for the cutlass, well, as much as I hated to part with it, I reminded myself
that I could conjure it up anytime I felt the need.
I stepped from behind the hut.
The old pirate ogled me with a gap-toothed grin. "Now, that's more like it, ma beauty." He elbowed
Kristof in the ribs. "Got yerself a damned fine wench there, lad."
"Uh, thank you."
"So, sir," I said. "Perhaps, if you have a moment, you'd be kind enough to tell us how we could get to
Roatan."
"Roatan?" His face scrunched up. "Why ye want to go to Roatan? All faction be here, on this side o' the
bay."
"Perhaps," Kris said. "But we really must get to Roatan. Is there a ship we could charter?"
"This ain't t' Yacht club, lad. Ye don't charter a pirate ship. Ye wants passage, ye gots team it, by going
on account."
"Going on account?"
The pirate slapped Kris on the back. "Joinin' a crew, lad. Joinin' a crew."
"I& see. Well, thank you very much for your time. Mind if we take a stroll along the harbor?"
"Stroll away. Ye wants to be joinin' a crew, now, ye lets me know, an' I'll set ye up." He slid a sly smile
my way. "And I'll look after yer wench while yer at sea."
We thanked the old pirate and headed to the wharf. If we couldn't charter a ship, we'd need to steal one.
Unfortunately, it quickly became obvious that every ship was guarded by at least two men, and the
galleons were packed in so tight that the moment we boarded one, we'd be beset by attackers from the
others.
I turned to Kristof. "They might not encourage rentals, but I bet we can find someone willing to bargain."
"Up to the taverns, then?"
I nodded.
We picked the largest of the three taverns along the main road. A sign at the door warned against the use
of weapons, magic, and supernatural powers of all kinds. Kristof vaporized his sword, then pulled open
the door and ushered me inside.
Chapter 22
INSIDE, THE CLATTER OF STEEL MUGS COMPETED WITH the roar of voices raised in laughter
and anger. The air was thick with cigar and wood smoke. Did pirates smoke cigars? Didn't look
authentic, but obviously someone had decided it was, and that was good enough for them. A themed
afterlife town should never be mistaken for a historical reconstruction. It's a theme-park version, like
Disney's Pirates of the Caribbean ride& before they sanitized it for the age of political correctness.
As we stepped inside, all conversation near the door stopped. The silence rolled across the room until
every mouth had closed, every eye turned to check out the new arrivals. They went first to the male half
of the party, and the testosterone wafted up thicker than the cigar smoke. In a dive like this, when a new
man walks through the door no one wonders what kind of conversationalist he'd make or sizes him up as
a potential poker dupe. No one even wonders whether they could con him into buying a few rounds of
grog. Instead, the thought going through every man's mind is "Hmm, wonder if I could take him in a fight."
And, as most turned away without so much as a second once-over, the overwhelming decision was
"yes." This wasn't a contender good size, good structure, but too old, too soft, and, my God, look at
those hands is that a manicure? Only the smallest and oldest of the men let their gazes linger, but even
those soon recognized a Wall Street wimp, no matter what costume he chose to cloak himself in. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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