Sentence 7

The starter sentence I used this time was: "When the bartender asked me which ship would possibly have let me aboard, I could only reply, 'What makes you think I can read?'" from one of tshuma's friends.

Which, to be honest, I found irritating at first because it just doesn't make a lot of sense. But in the end it was very satisfying to have worked it in (I bolded it in the story). So take a look if you like and suggest another starter sentence if you want.

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I paused outside the inn, adjusting my sword belt in an attempt to stop the edge from chafing my hip. As my fingers worried under and around the stiff leather I looked up at the sign. A cracking egg of considerable size was painted on the dark wood, the ovoid overlaying a blue anchor. The colors were mostly bright, though the edges looked dull and worn, as though the last touch-up artist had worked from the middle out and given up.

Confusingly, elaborate scripted words underneath the picture declared the inn to be the "Slap and Tickle" which had unsavory connotations of illicit coupling that made my unworldly heart race. But the icons above the lettering seemed correct and the captain had been insistent that I was to meet him at the inn on this street, a stone's throw from the wharf and even closer than that to the sights, sounds, and smells that accompanied it. No other inns were on the dirty street so I loosened the uncomfortable belt and pushed into the gloomy common room.

The first sight made me reconsider the wisdom of my recent actions and commitments. A score of men sat in various states of repose and drunkenness. Their countenances showed wear and weathering, carefully cultivated from years on English ships. Their clothes seemed part of them, a smooth fur molded to their bodies by sweat and salt water. Not completely filthy, mind you, but…connected to the wearers. Folds and creases that followed the line of their limbs perfectly through incessant use. I doubted any of them had been out of their trousers more than once a fortnight for as long as they had possessed them.

For a moment I froze, looking about (gawping, really). My neck tightened and a very strong urge to back out of the door clamped onto my legs. In that moment I was certain that the seamen in the inn would attack me, beat me, and toss me out onto the street for trespassing on their ground.

Luckily my mind took a firm hold and made me look around with clearer eyes. Aside from a casual glance when I first entered, no one was paying me any mind. Smoking pipes and dice and conversation had their attention.

With new confidence in my disguise, the sword belt and sailor's garb borrowed from the captain for the very purpose of walking the wharfs unmolested, I strode to a high, long table set to one side. It clearly served as a bar, the man behind it pulling ale from casks against the wall for those that wanted them.

I leaned a forearm against the table, aping a man who, by the look of his rheumy eyes, had been there for some time. The tender stared at me but made no move toward my position, idly rubbing a spot on his chest and worrying his teeth with his tongue.

Annoyed I rapped the table with my knuckles. "Hey there, my man, I would speak with you."

His eyebrows (a considerable portion of his low forehead) went up in what I can only describe as a mocking arch. Despite the look he stepped over to me.

"I'm meeting a ship's captain here to…ship aboard," that didn't sound quite right but I kept on, "draw me an ale while I wait, that's a good man."

Still itching at his shirt the publican seemed not to have heard me. "Good day, yer lordship," He leaned in, his face smiling not unkindly as he spoke, "are you certain a posh fella like you is in the right tavern? Did you read the sign closely?"

I had thought my disguise was adequate, but the man obviously wasn't fooled. So startled was I by his insight that when the bartender asked me which ship would possibly have let me aboard, I could only reply, "What makes you think I can read?"

His smile broadened and he leaned back, hooking both thumbs into a wide belt at his bulging waist. It was then that I noticed the pair of knives, both on his right, that hung at his side.

"I am glad you asked, your lordship. My craft goes unappreciated by most of these sots and sailors and it's a treat to share it with a man of learnin'." He seemed truly pleased, baffling me further.

"Yer sword is on wrong, right handed hilt, hanging at your right hand side. You had a look about you when you walked in that said 'Lord almighty, who are these murderers and which one of them is going to put it to me?' It's in the eyes, mostly, but the hands say the same thing." One thick finger jabbed at my face, though I say with some pride I did not flinch away. "And yer cheeks were red as you stepped acrost my threshold."

I was annoyed at this list, though more through my embarrassment at being found out so easily than from his effrontery. He wasn't talking sense and I feared I had walked into a den of drunkards run by an idiot. The thought that Captain Hawkins had sent me here for sport burned my cheeks an even deeper red. I silently vowed to do…something to him.

And there it was. My failure to come up with even the image of a suitable revenge was a crashing reminder of just how useless I was. Father had been right, no man in me. James' laughter echoed once again through my mind and I deflated.

"Here now," the bartender's voice was tinged with an unexpected concern, though he misinterpreted my slump, "no shame in being a reader, no matter what they may say." He turned to the casks and pulled a pint as he continued, "Do a fair bit meself. Missus don't drag me to the pews if'n I get a few pages of the Book in a week." The drink was set gently in front of me.

I looked at it a moment and felt I had made a friend. The barkeep's trade secret, I suppose, making a man feel welcome. Drink goes a long way in comforting a misery, surely. I drank.

"My cheeks were red?" I asked, considering the unexpectedly pleasant taste of his brew. He smiled again, clapping a hand on the bar.

"Aye, as apples. Dead giveaway that. No posh fella of your age would read 'Slap and Tickle' without looking flushed. Either aghast or excited, don't matter which, it'll get the blood to the face right quick."

"So…this is the Egg and Anchor?"

"Quite so!" He said with obvious pride, thumbs hooking back into his belt as he stood straighter. "That bit o' script is to keep the prudish knobs at bay. My clientele," he pronounced the word slowly, waving at the men stationed around the room, "is a certain type and don't like another certain type snoopin' around."

"Does that work?" It seemed a particularly feeble ploy.

He gave a sly look at the man leaning heavily against the bar next to me, his head nearly touching the table top. Then the tavern-master winked broadly at me as he spoke. "Spotted you didn't I?"

And with that I became much more comfortable. A clever man with a wide capacity for amusing himself I could understand. I was sure that the knives, though surely useful in his rough hands, would not be drawn against me if I minded my manners and didn't break too much of the furniture. And I might be excused a chair or two if the circumstances were entertaining.

I raised the mug to my companion and drank again, relaxing for the first time in what seemed like months. Setting it down after a draught I held my hand out.

"Fletcher, at your service."

He clasped my hand in both of his and shook it once, high and then down hard like he was working a pump handle. "Roberts, and a pleasure, your lordship."

"I'm not much of a lord, Roberts." I unbuckled my sword belt, shifting it to the proper side.

He tapped the side of his nose with a finger, "Right you are, Mr. Fletcher. In-cog-knit-o, aye?" A wink and a laugh at his joke. Or was he joking? I couldn't get a handle on whether he knew just what I was or not. Another barkeep secret, perhaps. Act as if you know all and soon enough you will.

"Now, about your captain. If he sent you here it's a good chance I've met the man."

"Definitely not a 'prudish knob' from what little I know of him." I got the sword straightened out and worked the leather belt snug again. "Captain Gregory Hawkins. D'you know him?"

Roberts' face went blank. The smile smoothed out into a line. His eyes, a moment before twinkling and amused, went flat and dead. Even his body seemed to go quiet and still. The bar keep stood that way for a long second. When he spoke it was a whisper.

"Know him? Aye. That I do, Fletcher."