It seemed the staff was with him constantly. It was six and a half feet high, made of a finely polished hickory wood, cut from the grove just outside his family's villa. The tree was cut and the staff fashioned by his Grandfather. It was an old custom of the Corsairs, though most families didn't follow it anymore. It was meant to be a way for a Corsair man to maintain his roots on Crete, to stay connected to them, no matter where they went. Though most in his family had not grown old enough to really need the staff for walking, it was mostly a ceremonial thing.
The staff had been ceremonial for him too; it used to stand next to his study door, though recently it had gone with him almost everywhere. For a time it stood next to his bedroom door, though everyday it got closer and closer to his bed. Barely a day went by anymore where he didn't need the staff just to get out of bed in the morning. He had never been the best of fighters, though he could usually hold his own, but the man's determination had taken him to places and given him power most people in Sirius only dream of.
How far he had come, he thought about it to himself. Gazing at the staff, he thought about his Grandfather. He had been the last great leader of his house. Respected among the families of Crete, with a sizable fleet, his Grandfather had been all that the head of a Cretan family should be. He was only ten when his Grandfather died, and the mere thought of it still caused him agony. He had loved his Grandfather absolutely. What a different life he might have had, his family might have had if his Grandfather had not died. But he had. His father had been nothing like his Grandfather. The man was often dumbstruck by genetics. How could father and son be so different? How had his father been so different from his grandfather? How had he been so different from his father? Where his Grandfather saw his family and its assets and reputation as something to be protected, his father saw those same things as things to be bargained, wagered and risked.
The man was seventeen when his father died, but even in that time his father had managed to destroy the family's reputation, and devastate its holdings. The fleet was lost to infighting with other families and failed exploration ventures. All that was left was a few small craft, a single gunboat, and the family Villa. Few seventeen year olds know the first thing about running a large Cretan family, let alone brining one back from the dead. For a year he tried, though it is possible no one could have tried hard enough to save his family. He had tried to hold the family's allies and retainers, but most found better arrangements with the larger, more reputable families. The contracts and agreements his Grandfather had made were not being followed, but there was nothing he could do. He was to carry his family's casket to the grave.
This part of the story has been told time and time again, so there is little need to belabor the details. An indigent man showed up at the doors of this crumbling family's villa. He was offered dinner, and a bed, and the two men ate, and then moved to the old study, where they talked for hours. When the two men walked out of the door of that study, there was one less Cretan family, the Sephardi family was dead, and Miguel Sephardi was reborn as a member of the Corsair Brotherhood.
Miguel Sephardi looked at the staff sitting by his bed again. So much time had gone by since then, since Pedro came to that villa, where Miguel now sat in bed, and changed his life. This part of the story too has been covered pretty well in other places, so no need to go into it too thoroughly. Miguel Sephardi rose through the ranks of the Brotherhood; he fought in the Rhienland war, against the AW, the NovaPG, the SCRA and countless others. He was the head of Security for the Council of Elders, a Centurion and finally Elder and Generalissimo of the Corsair Brotherhood Fleet. But those things also lay just slightly more recently in his life than his childhood. Miguel Sephardi had gotten very old. He could barely get into a Titan anymore, though once he did, he could still hold his own. But it had been two years since he had stepped down as Elder and leader of the Brotherhood. Even before he stepped down, he know of the sickness, the cancer, it ate away at his left hip and leg. He knew it would spread further eventually, but he was going to die of old age soon enough either way, so it wasn't of much concern to Miguel. Sitting in bed that morning, there were other things on the old man's mind.
Sephardi needed something to do. He had tried to help the Brotherhood on the diplomatic front a few times, though as usual, the Council generally got in the way. Miguel didn't dislike the Council per say, he had been involved in the negotiations to set it up, he had sworn to protect it's security, and he had been a member, but he knew, from all of those positions the dangers of the Council. The Elders were not bad men, nor bad leaders, they did what they felt was best of the people, nobler men he could not think of. The problem was that the Corsairs were at their heart, a clan based people. The families had run their own affairs for years, and in turn the nation's affairs were dealt with. Each family controlling a section of Crete and a section of space and doing what they felt best with it. Handling affairs how they decided. When Pedro called together the Council of Elders, all that changed, and now everything had to be agreed on. Miguel had seen it in long experience, and he had lived enough to understand human nature. Agreement is hard to come by, and Miguel knew, and had seen how it could paralyze the Corsairs from action. He knew that it was possible, that in a moment of critical importance, it could destroy everything through inaction. Sometimes decisive stands had to be taken, and that could not happen when everyone must agree.
Miguel had taken the Brotherhood out of the Council, a move that would forever loom large in his legacy, though now, the Brotherhood sat in the Council, so if he wanted to play the diplomacy game, he had to make nice with the Council, though it wasn't something Miguel was very good at. Miguel knew he had to find something else to do with his time. He couldn't spend days in a fighter cockpit anymore, but he could outfit a Raba quite to his liking, and all sorts of fun things can be done with gravity in space. So Miguel had taken some money and put together a transport and crew and was all set to take off on a new venture. There were few Corsairs who understood the infrastructure of the nation like Miguel Sephardi. He had spent countless hours discussing the economic issues Crete, the trade issues, the diplomatic issues. Miguel was uniquely qualified for a less than unique task, moving freight. He knew what was needed and where it was needed and more importantly he understood when and why. He had never had much interest in money, though it seemed in his old age, he was developing a bit of a passion for it, although only to keep track of his score on the way to the grave. Sephardi Shipping would be the last chapter in the great story of Miguel Sephardi of Crete.
All he has to do to get there is manage to get out of bed. He looked at the staff'¦'¦
Leaning heavily on his walking stick, Miguel Sephardi hobbled into the large main casino on the Golden Dragon. He had only been here a few times before, but he didn't have any trouble getting in. Most of the people in charge here knew who he was before he even docked his ship. Sephardi was a fairly well known name in certain circles.
He was escorted to a baccarat table in a quiet corner of the large, overly ornate hall. Casinos tend to be overly ornate places. Something about the ostentation breeds hope and greed in most of those who partake in these types of games. The room had several large crystal chandeliers, as well as marble panel work on the walls, inlaid with gold. A large stage stood at one end of the hall, with a band playing songs from the most popular Kusari crooners from 25 years ago. Thirty or so green felt topped gaming tables were spread throughout the room. It was a normal weekday night, meaning the place was at about seventy five percent capacity.
Sitting down in a large, high, overstuffed plush red velvet chair, Miguel let out a long sigh. The rest of the chairs around the table were normal casino stools, Miguel was quite pleased that the chair had been brought in for him. If there was anything the Hogosha were good at, it was taking care of big money customers. The Hogosha had run the underworld in Kusari for years. From prostitution to gambling to petty theft, the Hogosha had their fingers in all of it. Though Miguel knew things had been tough for the families lately. Many of the men he had dealt with in the past were sitting in prison cells awaiting trial at the hands of the new Kusari government.
That was probably something he should make a note to talk to El Presidente about the next time they spoke. Kusari had been safe from Corsairs for many years due to the friendliness shown the Corsairs by Samura and the former Kusari regime. Maybe it was time for that to change. Sephardi chuckled to himself at the thought of 'El Presidente.' He really liked his successor, although as with most young people nowdays, Miguel found him amusing, but he couldn't be happier with the choice, and the new energy the younger man had invigorated the Brotherhood with.
The large Kusari man who had escorted him to the table asked if everything was alright and asked if he could bring anything. Sephardi responded to bring a bottle of tequila, a cigar and a dealer. The large man hurried off and within a few minutes, Miguel was sipping his drink with a cigar in his hand playing baccarat. 'Things could be worse,' he thought to himself.
Miguel smoked and drank and played for almost a half hour before a tall dark haired, ravishingly beautiful woman came over and sat at the table. She was stunning, almost six feet tall, with fair skin and dark, dark hair, her eyes were deep, and bubbling in a shade of greenish brown that Sephardi was fairly sure he had never seen before. She wore a long , loose, blue satin gown, which flowed all the way down to her ankles. She sat for a quarter of an hour without saying anything, she placed a few bets, mainly to seem like she was paying attention to the game, but Miguel knew better.
He played a few more hands before striking up a conversation with the woman. The talked for a while, the woman pretending she had no clue who the man at the table with her was. Miguel bought the woman a drink and they continued to talk, mainly about nothing. The woman's name, or so she said, was Keko.
They continued to play and drink for about an hour while Miguel thought about his next move. Finally, he decided directness was probably the best move in this situation. Miguel had learned in his time that in most interactions with Kusari a folk, if you wanted to have some control of a situation, directness was the way to go, it was completely unkusari, and it still caught them off guard.
Miguel took a sip of his drink and quietly whispered in the woman's ear, 'Where is your boss?' The woman tried to pull away, but Miguel had he arm in his grip. 'I don't know what you are talking about.' She protested. Miguel looked her straight in the eyes. 'Here is the deal, I am going to let you go, and you are going to walk slowly away from this table like nothing happened. You are going to walk over to the table your boss is at, or the room upstairs, or against the wall. I know he is here and I know he can see us. Tell him I don't like games, but I am going to give him a chance to redeem himself. You tell him he is to come to this table in an hour. You go tell him that, and then you come back here and finish your drink here with me. I would think 10 minutes should be enough to take care of everything. Don't think of trying anything else. You are going to do this, or you won't wake up tomorrow morning, I promise you that.' With that, Miguel let go of the woman's arm.
To the casual observer, it would have looked like an intimate little conversation. Keko slowly stood up. Miguel smacked her on the rear and said 'Hurry back here Chica, you hear me?'
Looking back at the table, he took another sip of his drink, played another hand and began to wait. He wouldn't be waiting long though'¦..
Keko returned to the table a few minutes later. She was obviously nervous, but just as obviously, her boss had told her to come back and sit down. Miguel had assumed as much would happen. He ordered the woman another drink and one for himself. Miguel played the game, and mindlessly talked to Keko, he knew she was fairly unimportant in this whole thing. He knew someone was just using her to try and look after him, and he figured this was his way in. Miguel didn't know anyone in the leadership of the Hogosha any longer. In the past, he had trusted contacts in Kusari, but when the Emperor was deposed, all that changed, and the people who knew, were now mostly dead or in jail.
Miguel had like the Emperor, Kogen, well enough, they had never met in person, but had some communications. Kogen was a strong leader, and with his fall, the protection his strength provided had fallen away just as quickly. In the changing Kusari, the old timers were in jeopardy. If Miguel wanted to corner the trade from Kusari to Crete, he needed to make some contacts with the new kids on the scene. That's why he had come here, and it looked like it was working.
About five minutes later, a small Kusari man in a very fancy suit came up to the table and sat down. The suit was grey silk, and he wore a gold tie with it. His hair was ink black and short, and his skin was fairly dark for a Kusari. He finished off the look with gold rimmed sunglasses, even though they were clearly indoors.
Looking over at Miguel, the man began to speak. 'Elder Sephardi,' was all the man got out before Miguel cut him off. 'Let's dispense with that 'Elder' business. I no longer sit on the Council of Elders, nor do I lead the Brotherhood, so I think Miguel will work just fine for our purposes. And your name is?' Miguel asked without missing a beat. The man looked a bit taken off guard, after all recognition of status was a big thing in Kusari society. 'I am Sisan Tokana, hand of the Dragon's Foot organization.' The man said, his chest puffing out with pride as he explained his position. The Hand of an organization of the Hogosha was the man who ran its operations day to day. It was considered a fairly high rank among the Hogosha.
The man started to talk again, 'Elder Seph'¦. Excuse me, Miguel, I must say, Keko here is concerned she is in danger, would you care to explain to her that isn't true?' He said, trying to sound protective in front of his employee. Miguel reached into his pocket and pulled out a large fold of bills. 'Here sweetie,' he said handing her the cash 'sorry, didn't mean to scare you, just needed to get your boss's attention. Why don't you scurry off now so the men can talk.' He said, and the young woman quickly hurried off. Miguel looked at the Kusari man across from him and quickly began to talk again, not wanting to give the other man time to consider his options. 'Tokana-san. You obviously know who I am, so I am curious as to why you felt the need to have someone spy on me? That doesn't seem to be the appropriate way to treat those of us who have been long time friends of the Hogosha.'
Tokana ordered a drink and then responded once the waiter was out of earshot. 'It's not every day that someone of your standing shows up at the Golden Dragon unannounced Miguel. With the change in government here, we have had to be very, very careful not to bring any undue attention to ourselves and our activity. Senor Sephardi, to be honest, we have to know what you are up to. This is not the same Kusari as last year. So much has changed, and the only thing holding the Hogosha on the razor's edge of legitimacy is our discretion. We can't have you coming in here and kicking up the hornet's nest right now.' Tokana finished as the waited returned with his drink, taking a long sip, it was clear to Miguel, this man knew just how precarious the situation in Kusari was. He might work, Miguel thought to himself.