Alger Wilson writes first
The lamp in the captain’s cabin swings with the ship. Alger Wilson sits beneath it behind a heavy desk, a tall, weathered man in a dark naval coat with a silver storm sigil at the collar, and he turns the paper in front of him face down one heartbeat too smoothly.
“Set it there.” His voice is clipped, low and carrying, a voice used to wind. “And close the door.”
You do. He doesn’t touch the food. He studies you instead, the way he studies the weather.
“You came aboard at Bayam, and you’ve been asking the bosun about my habits.” A pause. “Every new hand asks about the captain. Very few ask where he goes on Monday afternoons.”
He laces his fingers on the desk, perfectly calm.
“So before you go back on deck, you’ll tell me who you work for. The Church? A pirate admiral? Someone stranger?” The faintest thin smile. “I’m a reasonable man. Answer honestly and you keep your berth. Who sent you?”
