'What do you know about Bloodstone?' Ben asked, barely thirty seconds after they'd stepped off the boat. It was a chilly night, somewhere close to autumn, somewhere closer to winter. The king jammed his hands in the pockets of his travelling coat and had a look around. To tell the truth, the king had been turning a bit of a blind eye to Bloodstone. And who could blame him? By all accounts it was filled with rogues, pirates, pirates who moonlighted as rogues, tax collectors and the like.

'A bit. None of it's good. Didn't you make a nuisance of yourself round these parts, Ben?' He glanced here and there to the lighted windows of crooked houses, and the sorry excuses for pathways so steep that career drunkards would roll to the pub rather than walking. He'd read about those.

'Made a nuisance of myself round a lot of parts,' Ben said. 'This one might be my favourite.'

It takes a certain type of person to get by in Bloodstone. Do not misunderstand; most tourists will find their way in and out again without experiencing excessive blood-loss or shattered hips. But living in Bloodstone takes a person of a certain inclination, the sort able to move between the bars and bordellos without bankrupting themselves in a friendly game of Keystone or having the prostitutes spread unkind rumours about them. From what Ben had told the king, it was a fine line to tread. He wasn't sure he could hack it.
The pair took a walk down what you could call the main promenade if you were feeling generous. Ben gave the king a nudge.

'Get that crown off your head,' said Ben. 'I want to give you the proper Bloodstone experience.'

'Does that mean I'm going to be shot?' said the king.

'Who knows?' said Ben, punching him lightly in the arm. 'That's half the fun. Did you look at someone funny? Was that the landlord's daughter? You never know until there's a dagger shoved up against your throat.'

'You said fun, there, you know.'

'At any rate, someone's going to nick it if you don't take it off so I'd jump before I'm pushed if I were you.'

The king obliged. He didn't really have anywhere to put it so he looped it through his belt.

'Shouldn't make a difference,' said the king, drawing his coat together more tightly, 'people do know who I am.'

Ben snorted.

'Here? Bloodstone isn't exactly a thriving hub of commerce and culture, you know. Most of this lot have never ventured past the first mist-wisp of Wraithmarsh. They know there's an arse warming the throne but that's about it, mate.'

The king tried not to frown too severely. 'That's ridiculous. This place is terrible.'

He'd already had to dodge two people spitting in his general direction, and he wasn't convinced they were accidents.

'You're supposed to be the monarch. If you don't like it, do something about it.' Ben took a seat at a table outside The Leper's Arms and inspected an unattended half-pint, before shoving it away with an expression of distaste. 'But don't shut down the brothels, alright?'

The king gingerly sat down at a facing stool, which seemed to be an upturned bucket bolted to a large roasting tray.

'Where would I even begin?'

'Ask Reaver,' said Ben. 'I'm sure he'd be more than thrilled to turn a few cogs down here again. You know, I wouldn't be surprised if he was still in charge.'

A mildly horrifying thought and not a particularly glowing report for Reaver's managerial skills if true, but Bloodstone had always been a bawdy port for pirates and rum-runners and other such racketeers. It had slipped his mind on more than one occasion that Reaver's pomp and circumstance were learned behaviours from a pirate and a criminal, he played business so well.

'What, and facilitate another Bloodstone uprising? He'd be after the throne.'

'Nah,' said Ben. 'Reaver's not the ruling type. From what I hear he wasn't so much concerned with peacekeeping as having a platform to tell people what to do and shoot them whenever he fancied.'

'He still does that now,' mused the king.

'Yeah…you should do something about that,' said Ben. The king was silent for a moment.

'Yeah, I should.'

Ben was right. Reaver had no desire to rule, not when he could palm the hard decisions onto someone else and turn a profit as the only viable means of making them happen. But, he'd been…alright. As a court advisor he hadn't murdered anyone in the king's presence, and he was always available to talk finance, and he hadn't (yet) caused Page or Ben to attempt to stab him. Perhaps it wouldn't be so terribly mad to tell him to tidy things up here on the crown's authority. He did have a reputation that stretched further than Albion (for many, terrible reasons, none of which would usually lend one to give him any degree of responsibility). But Bloodstone could certainly get no worse, and if it went completely tits up then it was all Reaver's fault and what do you expect from Reaver really?

'Do you think it would be a bad idea, telling him to sort this place out?' asked the King, gaze locked on the horizon. It would be a nice view over the seafront if the profile of someone pissing into the gutter wasn't grazing the edge of his vision.

'Probably,' said Ben.

'Mm. But he'd rein it in if I told him to, yeah?'

'No idea.'

A couple of fellows burst out of the inn doors, both furiously concentrated on trying to throttle the other with one hand without spilling the beers they held in the other.

'I'm going to ask Reaver.'