I paused for a moment, a drop of ink welling at the tip of
my pen.
“I’ve never signed a death warrant before. Bit odd to be
signing my own…”
Slowly, I drew the pen across the parchment, my signature a
few simple loops and swirls. I took my time to clean the pen, press dry the
ink, and then stand up, my shackles clinking.
“So, in exchange for not dying by the executioner, instead I
die on some distant shore, after I man your third ship, what did you call
it?”
Christopher rolled up the document slowly.
“The Pinta.”
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