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Brother Diaz prayed. It was hardly the first time. Prayers are to a monk as stones to a mason, after all—you really can’t do the job without them. Back at the monastery he’d filed into the church dawn, noon, and evening, occasionally led a service for the locals, a couple of baptisms, one slightly anticlimactic funeral. But he’d done plenty of private praying, too—that he might finally make a mark, make his brothers jealous, make his mother proud—and he liked to believe he was really rather good at it. Congratulate himself on his thorough knowledge of the psalms. It was only in this moment of
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“They’re just really, really horrible thieves on the sea. They’re not funny, they’re not charming, the food is awful. If someone offers you the chance to be a pirate, tell them you’re busy. That’s my advice.”
Courage is catching. If one man shows it, it spreads. Fear is the same.
He heard the door creak open and, with great reluctance, twisted around to look. Baptiste stood in the doorway, regarding him in the manner with which one might regard a blocked latrine.
“Ahoy there!” Jakob looked up. A man stood on an arrow-shaped platform at the prow of the galley, leaning out to wave wildly, as if trying to catch a friend’s attention in a public square. He had a soft, round face, a lot of flashing jewellery including a dangling diamond earring, and a floppy shock of curly golden hair. “I can only apologise for the whole ramming thing, but I find negotiations run smoothest following a strong statement of intent, don’t you?” He placed a limp hand on the front of a scarlet jacket heavy with gilded honours. “I am Duke Constans, et cetera, et cetera, and so on,
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Duke Constans seems to me a blonde Jack Sparrow :-/
