Story #37
Three of Wands
He listened as the young sailor bragged to the bartender. He tried to have empathy for the cabin boy, remembering that he had once been the same age, wide-eyed and excited, knowing that it had been years of hard lessons that had gotten him to where he was, but he couldn’t believe that, even at his most naive, he would have been so eager to run his mouth in the presence of strangers. How the boy had gotten separated from his crew was a mystery. Likely, he’d not be a crew member much longer, if he lived through the night. Most of the sand sailors that frequented the outpost at Nuevo Alamo kept to themselves. For the most part, they were a mix of Natives, Mexicans, and men whose white skin had long since turned to leather in the brutal sun and harsh winds that made up what weather there was in this god-forsaken land.
At the mention of the General and the Elemental he was rumored to have on board, Tristan had tuned in, as had most of the bar, though they showed no outwardly signs of it, save a sideward glance here and there, and the conversation turning slow and generic, like syrup sliding in slow motion through an hourglass. They kept up the pretense of minding their own business, while taking care not to miss a word. The boy’s captain, Guapo, a slimy degenerate that, in spite of his shortcomings, most, including Tristan, still had a soft spot for, had fallen short of payment for a shipment of much-coveted meds. The boy wiggled his eyebrows at the bartender, and the desperate men in the room needed no further explanation to connect the dots. A kidnapping was being planned.
Tristan threw back the remainder of his drink, and tossed a coin down the bar to pay for the boy’s. Poor thing had no idea what kind of can of worms he’d just opened.
“His last one’s on me,” he told the bartender, knowing it was true in more ways than one.
