monster?’
‘I’m a fisherman, not a spy,’ the Old Man retorted, ‘and the problems of the
fishermen are no concern of the land.’
‘But…’ Hort began then lapsed into silence. If his father was going to be
closed-mouthed about his plans, no amount of browbeating was likely to budge
him.
Upon reaching Jubal’s estate, Hort was amazed at the ease with which the Old Man
handled the slaver’s underlings who routinely challenged his entry. Though it
was well known that Jubal employed notorious cut-throats and murderers who hid
their features behind blue-hawk masks, Panit was unawed by their arrogance or
their arms.
‘What do you two want here?’ the grizzled gate-keeper barked.
‘We came to talk to Jubal,’ the Old Man retorted.
‘Is he expecting you?’
‘I need an appointment to speak with a slaver?*
‘What business could an old fisherman have with a slaver?’
‘If you were to know, I’d tell you. I want to see Jubal.’
‘I can’t just…’
‘You ask too many questions. Does he know you ask so many questions?’
That final question of the Old Man’s cowed the retainer, confirming Hort’s town
refined suspicions that most of the slaver’s business was covert rather than
overt.
They were finally ushered into a large room dominated by a huge, almost throne
like, chair at one end. They had been waiting only a few moments when Jubal
entered, belting a dressing-gown over his muscular, ebony limbs.
‘I should have known it was you. Old Man,’ the slaver said with a half-smile.
‘No other fisherman could bluff his way past my guards so easily.’