Keelin had yet to pick a governor for the town and, as such, was taking on the responsibility himself. He’d also taken on the responsibility of purchasing loot from passing pirate ships, depleting his own ship’s stores and gifting a fair few credit notes signed by Drake. He was managing both the brothel and the tavern, and seeing that the townsfolk were looked after with all their most pressing needs met. If one of the crew didn’t mutiny soon, Keelin was fairly sure he’d stage the damned thing himself. Within the first two months, Keelin had found himself dealing with everything from food shortages to food contamination, disease to dissidents, sand monster attacks to magical seduction, lumber shortages to riots over housing. The townsfolk had formed themselves a council, and the members of that council brought their problems to Keelin every day. Every day he imagined running them all through, setting fire to the town, and sailing away into the molten-gold sunset.
Keelin had to admit, as he supped on a mug of what was currently passing for ale in the tavern, it could have been worse. The arrival of Daimen Poole and Mary’s Virture had been a godsend. If Keelin had worshipped any of them, he’d have given them the praying of a lifetime. Captain Poole was very much in Drake’s corner, and had thankfully undertaken many of the day-to-day tasks that would otherwise have fallen to Keelin. Unfortunately, after six weeks ashore, Poole’s crew were also becoming anxious to get back on the water.
Scratching at his chin, Keelin caught a finger in a knot of hair and ripped it free with a grimace. He needed to shave. He’d needed to shave for months now, but his razor was back on The Phoenix, and he hadn’t been back on his ship for… Keelin couldn’t actually remember how long it had been. Most nights he found himself getting so drunk he passed out right there in the tavern, and then, when he woke in the morning, he could just pull another mug of piss poor beer and listen to the new list of problems.
There was a stain on his once bright blue jacket. The jacket had cost a small fortune, and Keelin had thought of it as his best, favourite, and smartest garment. Now it looked drab, worn through, and sweaty. Even Keelin had to admit that he smelled. In a town full of folk who stank like weeks-old eggs, that was an accomplishment.
Not even during his time on The Black Death had Keelin taken so little effort to smarten his appearance. Back then he’d been young and brash, but he’d also taken pride in being the cleanest member of the crew. Despite some early beatings, Keelin had quickly established himself as more than competent with a sword. There were definitely some benefits to having spent many of his childhood years training with his older brother. More important than his reputation for being clean or dangerous with a pointy object had been his relationship with Tanner Black’s daughter. They’d fucked and fought in equal measure, but despite their disagreements, back then Keelin would have drained the sea for her.
A small part of Keelin argued that he would still do anything for Elaina. He chalked it down to the booze and ignored the little voice. He seemed to be finding it very hard to organise his thoughts these days.
“I need some fresh air,” Keelin said to no one. A couple of the other tavern patrons, those too drunk to stumble back to their homes or their ship, glanced at him and then away. Keelin struggled with his chair, using the table to pull himself out of it. He promptly staggered, sending both the table and himself careening to the floor. It took some effort to get back up, and even the town drunkard was laughing by the time he managed it.
“Fucking table’s a death…” Keelin stopped, realising that no one was listening and even fewer folk cared. He lurched over to the door.
The world that greeted him outside the tavern was too bright and too blurry. The sun was up high, beating down mercilessly, and, as always, there was barely a lick of wind to be had, unless you counted the hot air the merchants wasted on passing pirates. New Sev’relain may have been well on its way to being called a settlement, but it was far from becoming a prosperous one for those who wished to sell any wares.
They had moved the town further up the beach since first establishing the settlement. Trees had been cleared away and more permanent buildings erected on more stable ground; sand was no place to be counting on structural support. The tavern had been taken apart and moved up the beach in what could only be described as a pointless but monumental effort, and now sat in the dead centre of the growing town. There were homes, warehouses, shops, a brothel, two inns for those pirates wishing to sleep in a real bed for a night or two, and even a gallows. Luckily the gallows had yet to be tested, but with Drake outlawing both rape and slavery, it was only a matter of time before someone found themselves swinging.
When Drake had decreed slavery would be outlawed and any passing slavers caught and confiscated, their wares freed, Keelin had asked why. The only reply he received was a dark stare and oppressive silence.
As Keelin’s vision adjusted to the new lighting situation, he noticed a drunken pirate passed out half against the wall of the tavern and half on the leaf-littered ground. It didn’t look like a comfortable place to rest a face, but the poor bastard was doing it anyway. After a moment Keelin recognised the pirate as Jotin Breen, one of his own men and, until recently, one of the most respected members of his crew. It appeared the long period ashore wasn’t doing anyone any good.
Across the street was the brothel, the Merry Fuck. It certainly wasn’t the most eloquent of names, but then Keelin had made the mistake of allowing the whores to name it themselves. Shrewd the whores may be with their profession, now they had the protection of Drake Morrass, but their command over the common language was far less savvy.
Outside the brothel lay another unconscious pirate, this one not of Keelin’s crew and bleeding from a head wound that didn’t look encouraging. The poor bastard was propped up against the wall of the Merry Fuck, and unless someone did something soon, it was likely he’d die there. Though the whores were under Drake’s protection, the brothel and the other inhabitants were not. As such the whores had hired themselves a couple of hard-headed, heavy-fisted brutes to keep order within the confines of the building. Unfortunately the two men had turned out to be rather vicious in the beatings they handed out; it was one of the many things the council had recently brought to Keelin’s attention.
The streets were busy with folk going about their daily business. Work crews were still felling trees and working their magic to turn them into serviceable wood for construction. A small team of reliable types had been conscripted by the Arbiter before she left with Drake, and they were even now searching the forest and marking off areas protected by magical traps. A fresh water source had been found out in the jungle, and it was currently a full-time job to ferry water down to the town. That was one of the most harrowing jobs the island presented, as the water source was also home to a group of monkeys who would sit in the trees, silently watching any and all who dared trespass on their domain.
There was something slipping Keelin’s mind. He realised it as he stood there in the middle of the street, with folk passing him by on their daily errands. There was something he was supposed to be doing, the reason he’d bothered to leave the tavern in the first place.