Max moved in, his eyes sweeping over the dockworkers and merchants bustling near the city gates.
"Sir, your identification, please."
Just as he was about to step onto the cobbled path into Port Royal, a voice stopped him.
He turned, facing an older man with a well-fed gut and wary eyes.
The man wore loose clothes topped by a white long coat. Perched on his nose were glasses, and in his hand, a small leather-bound register.
Dock staff? Max tilted his head. The man scribbled something in his book, glancing up.
Beside him stood a young boy, dark-skinned, better clothed than most workers. A servant, maybe once a slave.
Max shrugged. Slavery in this era, especially against blacks, was hardly surprising.
This era had no great power to back anyone claiming to work for humanity. Even those self-righteous organisations, frequently organising protests in the modern era, always had someone hidden to back them, feeding their agendas.
Humanity has become merely a subject of debate, not a value embraced and lived with the heart.
"Sir, a shilling for docking a boa—" The man's words faltered as his gaze drifted to the ship behind Max.
Cough—
"Your ship requires inspection," the man added with a grin, not quite hiding the invitation for a bribe.
Just as Max opened his mouth, a familiar voice beat him to it.
"Here are the documents."
Marco approached, stepping past Max and handing the papers with practised calm. Then he stood behind him, back straight, silent as a shadow.
The inspector barely skimmed the pages before tossing out a half-hearted, "Seems fine…"
But Max could already read the greed in the man's eyes.
Before the inspector could push further, Marco tossed a pouch at him.
Clang—!
It landed with a satisfying clink.
The man caught it reflexively, peeked inside, and visibly lit up. Max almost imagined drool at the edge of the man's lips.
"Ah! My mistake," The man laughed nervously, rubbing his hands. "No need for inspection. Your papers are… perfectly in order. Who would dare question the glory of the knight's house, after all?"
Max narrowed his eyes. The flattery was forced and insulting.
Meanwhile, Marco nodded without taking him seriously.
The man's words, though flattering, were tinged with provocation. If knights truly had some semblance of influence, this man would've prostrated long ago.
However, his behaviour changed not with identification, but with the clinking sound of coins.
Furthermore, his smile disgusted Max. He was looking down on him without any shame.
Max scoffed at the flattery. "May I leave now?" he squinted indifferently.
"Yes, yes… sir."
Max left without even glancing at the man. Wishing him luck in his head, at the same time marking him, remembering his face.
'No one takes my money without repercussions,' he mulled coldly.
He nodded at Marco, who bowed, leaving to take care of the crew and the ship's merchandise.
Although Max was the leader of the voyage and trade, Marco had experience; therefore, Max left such tasks to him.
With the matter handled, he moved on, free to explore.
Staring at the city, he inhaled. His eyes lingered on the well-built stone structures with tiled roofs and wooden shutters lining narrow cobbled streets.
Taking everything in, he moved slowly.
He observed how the city split; affluent nobles, merchants, and prosperous families occupied the finer quarters, while the rest, the poor and labouring, survived in crowded streets, living each day through toil and sweat.
The city is governed by British law, represented by figures like Governor Weatherby Swann, trying to maintain civility in this untamed land.
Max already connected dots, how this city worked.
The upper class, officers, nobles, and merchants wear powdered wigs and silks, attending balls and sipping wine under chandeliers.
The underbelly, pirates, smugglers, and drunkards crawl through the back alleys and cellars, often under the watchful eye or threat of the gallows.
Markets and inns fill the lower city, vendors hawk salted fish, imported rum, and bolts of cloth, while drunk sailors stagger between taverns, brothels, and gambling dens.
Max watched some, other linking through clues. He swayed along with the citizens, his steps following along.
Next, his gaze then landed on a mansion, the Governor's Mansion, sitting on a gentle rise overlooking the bay. Stately, with whitewashed walls, gardens, and servants bustling to serve elites.
"Is that where one of the protagonists lives?" he mused with a smile. "Soon we'll meet."
He disappeared into the crowd with the fading words, while brooding.
….
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