Black Sea

Five

Thackery had traveled far over the years, but one of few constants was always the bandit filled Taverns.

He could always count on them to smell of ale and body musk, occasional infusions of bile someone was unable to contain for one reason or another. There were always travelers like himself, sharing sea tales and misfortunes, offering to pay for drinks none of them could afford. Depending on the time of day, there was always at least one lady entertainer making her rounds and pursuing what little coin the pirates had. If the girl were pretty enough, there might even be a fight over who would indulge in her first, creating a price hike for her sudden influx in demand. Thackery had seen it all, if not been a part of it himself.

More than that, he could always rely on finding a buyer of anything Roux needed to sell. All he needed to do was wait and listen.

He sat at the wooden bar, nursing a mug of ale he'd squandered a coin for and pretending not to be eavesdropping on the men at the other end of the table. Their conversation had begun low, keeping information between them which made them easy to pick out from the boisterous crowd. Thackery had learned young that anyone who had something of worth to say never shouted it to the world in an attempt to gain status. They stayed huddled in with maybe one other, treating the rest of the establishment as if they didn't exist.

Yet, as easy as they were to spot, it was just as hard to spy.

Thackery couldn't sit next to the men without drawing attention to himself and if he did, he would learn nothing of benefit. Sitting across the bar from them didn't earn him anything either except the anonymity of a man who wished to be alone. He'd learned that men were more likely to speak their truths among each other when they believed that no one else was listening. So when he stared enough at the golden liquid in his cup, he gave them the illusion that he cared not for them or anything they had to say.

"It's true, I tell ya," one of the men suddenly shouted, seeming offended by their companion. "Had me a fist full of gold before the lad pulled me to shore. Dropped 'em back deep 'nd haven't been back since! None o' my crew want nothin' to do wit' that bit of sea again. Say it's cursed."

"Aye," his friend returned, just loud enough for Thackery to pick up on. "Cursed as your mind, I bet. Ain't no gold near Circe Isle. No man wit' brains would venture out to her sea, nay with gold to weigh 'em in their watery grave."

"I see your game ain't change much," a gravelly and familiar voice cut through Thackery's attention. He looked up from his drink to see a tall man with long brown hair half pulled away from his face with interspersed braids and clear blue eyes. With a dark beard on his sun kissed skin, he left a pale pink scar line visible across his jaw. Another scar, in the shape of an X, sat at the very bottom of his throat leading to his collarbone.

The man sat next to Thackery on a stool, a knowing half smile twisting up his face. "Well I'll be damned," Thackery greeted with a surprised smile. "Marx, ya slick bastard, we thought you were dead."

"Neva that," Marx replied cockily, taking a swig from the cup the barkeep delivered him without request. "Ain't no man or sea tha' eva bested me."

"Yea? I'll be sure to let Roux know," he taunted in return. "Bet he'd love another chance."

"Aye, I bet he would," Marx laughed. The hard lines of his face settled his full attention on Thackery, diverting the young man from his current duty. While the men didn't sound as if they had any helpful information on a top billed buyer, their talks of Circe Isle definitely caught his attention. "What bring Roux and you lot to Anson?"

"Just a little hole in The Lyria," Thackery answered cautiously. Marx was once Quartermaster on their ship but always wanted more. He'd challenged Roux once for his title of Captain but all he'd earned was a Cutlass edge across his skin. Being old friends, Roux gave Marx an ultimatum; leave the ship the next time they made land or remain and step down from his right hand. Marx had chosen the former, just before falling overboard in a storm, leaving Thackery unsure of any alliance between the two. "Nothin' Deacon can't patch up. How 'bout you?" He took a gulp of his drink, eyes trained and assessing on the other man.