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apparently imagining the height of the cliff. Finally, he nodded.
    “You can do it?”
    He nodded again.
    “Even in a high wind? Good. Then you’ll go with us.”
    Hunter started to get up, but the Moor pushed him back into his chair. The Moor jangled the coins in his pocket, and pointed a questioning finger at Hunter.
    “Don’t worry,” Hunter said. “It’s worth it.”
    The Moor smiled. Hunter left.
    .   .   .
    HE FOUND SANSON in a second-floor room of the Queen’s Arms. Hunter knocked on the door and waited. He heard a giggle and a sigh, then knocked again.
    A surprisingly high voice called, “Damn you to hell and be gone.”
    Hunter hesitated, and knocked again.
    “God’s blood, who is it now?” came the voice from inside.
    “Hunter.”
    “Damn me. Come in, Hunter.”
    Hunter opened the door, letting it swing wide, but he did not enter; a moment later, the chamber pot and its contents came flying through the open door.
    Hunter heard a soft chuckle from inside the room. “Cautious as ever, Hunter. You will outlive us all. Enter.”
    Hunter entered the room. By the light of a single candle, he saw Sanson sitting up in bed, next to a blond girl. “You have interrupted us, my son,” Sanson said. “Let us pray that you have good reason.”
    “I do,” Hunter said.
    There was a moment of awkward silence, as the two men stared at each other. Sanson scratched his heavy black beard. “Am I to guess the reason for your coming?”
    “No,” Hunter said, glancing at the girl.
    “Ah,” Sanson said. He turned to the girl. “My delicate peach . . .” He kissed the tips of her fingers and pointed with his hand across the room.
    The girl immediately scrambled naked out of bed, hastily grabbed up her clothes, and bolted from the room.
    “Such a delightful creature,” Sanson said.
    Hunter closed the door.
    “She is French, you know,” Sanson said. “French women make the best lovers, don’t you agree?”
    “They certainly make the best whores.”
    Sanson laughed. He was a large, heavy man who gave the impression of brooding darkness — dark hair, dark eyebrows that met over the nose, dark beard, dark skin. But his voice was surprisingly high, especially when he laughed. “Can I not entice you to agree that French women are superior to English women?”
    “Only in the prevalence of disease.”
    Sanson laughed heartily. “Hunter, your sense of humor is most unusual. Will you take a glass of wine with me?”
    “With pleasure.”
    Sanson poured from the bottle on his bedside table. Hunter took the glass and raised it in a toast. “Your health.”
    “And yours,” Sanson said, and they drank. Neither man took his eyes off the other.
    For his part, Hunter plainly did not trust Sanson. He did not, in fact, wish to take Sanson on the expedition, but the Frenchman was necessary to the success of the undertaking. For Sanson, despite his pride, his vanity, and his boasting, was the most ruthless killer in all the Caribbean. He came, in fact, from a family of French executioners.
    Indeed, his very name — Sanson, meaning “without sound” — was an ironic comment on the stealthy way that he worked. He was known and feared everywhere. It was said that his father, Charles Sanson, was the king’s executioner in Dieppe. It was rumored that Sanson himself had been a priest in Liège for a short time, until his indiscretions with the nuns of a nearby convent made it advantageous for him to leave the country.
    But Port Royal was not a town where much attention was paid to past histories. Here Sanson was known for his skill with the saber, the pistol, and his favorite weapon, the crossbow.
    Sanson laughed again. “Well, my son. Tell me what troubles you.”
    “I am leaving in two days’ time. For Matanceros.”
    Sanson did not laugh. “You want me to go with you to Matanceros?”
    “Yes.”
    Sanson poured more wine. “I do not want to go there,” he said. “No sane man wants to go to Matanceros. Why