people.”
“Hurting people will not change what has happened,” Mr. Weaver said.
“I know.”
“Then I will begin your training tomorrow,” he said.
Mr. Weaver proved to be correct. Hurting people never made me feel better, but sometimes, when I punched or tackled or kicked, it made me forget to feel at all, and that, at least, was some relief.
Chapter 3
My trunks would have to be cleared through the customs house, and it might be a day or more before they were delivered. So, with my business aboard the ship complete, I took my leave.
The Tagus is massive at Lisbon. Called by locals the
Mar da Palha
, the Sea of Straw, it was perhaps a mile across to Almada. Vessels of all sizes, from titan East Indiamen to single-sail fishing boats, crowded the huge expanse of water. The quays were used primarily for unloading and loading barges, as the river was quite deep in its center, but too shallow near the shores for the great ships to dock. I took passage on a barge commissioned by the Factory and powered by a dozen hollow-eyed African galley slaves.
I kept my eyes on the water, taking in the range of mighty vessels and opulent barges with their red velvet canopies and gold tassels. They belonged to wealthy
fidalgos
, minor nobility, or perhaps even to the royal family itself. The packet had anchored directly in front of the
Terreiro do Paço
, the Palace Square, and the barge veeredwestward, past the royal shipyards that rang with the pounding of hammers and the sawing of wood, to a small set of quays at the foot of Chaido Hill. It was all industry and growth and trade here, as goods from all over the world were unloaded and set on carts that rolled toward the warehouses. Silks and furs to dress the rich, and meats and cheeses and grains to feed them.
When I first arrived in England ten years before, I had been shocked to discover that the greatest men in the kingdom took pride in their farmlands. Their properties fed and clothed the nation, and while they might not soil their own hands with labor, they nevertheless understood themselves to be physically bound to the land. An English gentleman always took pride in serving the foods cultivated upon his own estates. In Portugal, a
fidalgo
would imagine himself diminished if he were to bring the fruits of his holdings to market, and so the country could offer its citizens little in the way of meat or produce. The waters were teeming with fish, and peasants and small men and ships from other nations worked them, but no gentleman would tarnish his name by being called a fisherman. I watched, as I came to shore, barrels of salted fish from England being unloaded down the quays. It was but one way in which Portuguese pride made Englishmen rich.
Without ceremony, I stepped upon the quay and began to shoulder my way through the crowd of sweat-stinking slaves and laborers. It was but a short distance to my new lodgings, the Duke’s Arms, one of a mass of inexpensive inns and taverns serving the English. I had not chosen the most reputable of such establishments, and my inquiries suggested that a man wishing to make the best possible impression would have stayed elsewhere. I, however, was not looking to make the best possible impression. Far better to appear to be a man who little knows his best interests. Far better to appear to be lost and uncertain in this dangerous city. That was what would get me closest to the Inquisitor I sought.
Naturally, I could not have predicted the day of my arrival—travelfrom England ranged from as little as eight days to three weeks or longer, should bad weather or pirates intervene—but I had written ahead to tell the innkeeper of my ship’s name and its departure date. The inn would know of the packet’s arrival and ready my room accordingly.
I considered these details as I walked, keeping my head down, feeling the sun beat upon my neck, smelling rosemary and fish and the sour stink of laborers who passed close. I turned away from all I
“Hurting people will not change what has happened,” Mr. Weaver said.
“I know.”
“Then I will begin your training tomorrow,” he said.
Mr. Weaver proved to be correct. Hurting people never made me feel better, but sometimes, when I punched or tackled or kicked, it made me forget to feel at all, and that, at least, was some relief.
Chapter 3
My trunks would have to be cleared through the customs house, and it might be a day or more before they were delivered. So, with my business aboard the ship complete, I took my leave.
The Tagus is massive at Lisbon. Called by locals the
Mar da Palha
, the Sea of Straw, it was perhaps a mile across to Almada. Vessels of all sizes, from titan East Indiamen to single-sail fishing boats, crowded the huge expanse of water. The quays were used primarily for unloading and loading barges, as the river was quite deep in its center, but too shallow near the shores for the great ships to dock. I took passage on a barge commissioned by the Factory and powered by a dozen hollow-eyed African galley slaves.
I kept my eyes on the water, taking in the range of mighty vessels and opulent barges with their red velvet canopies and gold tassels. They belonged to wealthy
fidalgos
, minor nobility, or perhaps even to the royal family itself. The packet had anchored directly in front of the
Terreiro do Paço
, the Palace Square, and the barge veeredwestward, past the royal shipyards that rang with the pounding of hammers and the sawing of wood, to a small set of quays at the foot of Chaido Hill. It was all industry and growth and trade here, as goods from all over the world were unloaded and set on carts that rolled toward the warehouses. Silks and furs to dress the rich, and meats and cheeses and grains to feed them.
When I first arrived in England ten years before, I had been shocked to discover that the greatest men in the kingdom took pride in their farmlands. Their properties fed and clothed the nation, and while they might not soil their own hands with labor, they nevertheless understood themselves to be physically bound to the land. An English gentleman always took pride in serving the foods cultivated upon his own estates. In Portugal, a
fidalgo
would imagine himself diminished if he were to bring the fruits of his holdings to market, and so the country could offer its citizens little in the way of meat or produce. The waters were teeming with fish, and peasants and small men and ships from other nations worked them, but no gentleman would tarnish his name by being called a fisherman. I watched, as I came to shore, barrels of salted fish from England being unloaded down the quays. It was but one way in which Portuguese pride made Englishmen rich.
Without ceremony, I stepped upon the quay and began to shoulder my way through the crowd of sweat-stinking slaves and laborers. It was but a short distance to my new lodgings, the Duke’s Arms, one of a mass of inexpensive inns and taverns serving the English. I had not chosen the most reputable of such establishments, and my inquiries suggested that a man wishing to make the best possible impression would have stayed elsewhere. I, however, was not looking to make the best possible impression. Far better to appear to be a man who little knows his best interests. Far better to appear to be lost and uncertain in this dangerous city. That was what would get me closest to the Inquisitor I sought.
Naturally, I could not have predicted the day of my arrival—travelfrom England ranged from as little as eight days to three weeks or longer, should bad weather or pirates intervene—but I had written ahead to tell the innkeeper of my ship’s name and its departure date. The inn would know of the packet’s arrival and ready my room accordingly.
I considered these details as I walked, keeping my head down, feeling the sun beat upon my neck, smelling rosemary and fish and the sour stink of laborers who passed close. I turned away from all I
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