[h2]Port-au-Prince, Presidential Palace[/h2]

To call the palace in the highlands over Port-au-Prince anything close to a formal palace would be an over-estimation at its best regard. With its eerily out of place plantation richness though, it was really more of a large house, comparable to a small mansion than a sprawling political estate. Though the property it rested on could be called its most palatial features, with sprawling gardens flanking narrow gravel walkways, populated by palm and mahogany trees that sighed in the tropical breezes that blew through.

From the second-story windows one could see down to the boomerang shape of Port-au-Princes shoreline, a shape nicked and cut by the plethora of old-world piers and cement docks that jutted out into the bay. It was from that bay where every-day the waters of the sea would rise and wash inland several times a day to flood the old streets, during the old bay-side city into a labyrinth of canals that intersected between the tops of buildings. Through a telescope one could watch at these times of day and night as men in canoes paddled through the tidal water almost as much as the faint suggestion of men moved about on plank bridges that crisscrossed above the impromptu waterways. A second layer of structures had since been added over the years out of crude and primitive scaffold structures creating a veritable urban jungle inhabited by the nation's sea-farriers.

“The roads to Cap-Haitien and Port-de-Paix are still considerably dangerous routes. While our efforts south in the Tiburon are quiet effective, the roads and highways in the north are increasingly dangerous. Often washed out.” Said a squat portly man with a square face as unimpressive as a chunk of unused rock granite. A thin scruffy bushel of unshaven beard grew from his chin and did little to make the man any less of an over-sized piglet. “As well, given the condition of the road-ways some groups lacking any formal support or proper honor have taken to acting as guides to travelers, often mugging or abandoning their wards mid-way through and making off with their money or belongings; leaving them in some of our worse highland roads.”

“So why don't we just arrest the perpitrating groups and be done with it?” the president asked. Georges Mahon was a towering man with a soft voice. And much unlike the sweating figure standing in his stately little office he had a full beard, oil black with a few strands of salty gray and white among the curling wires. He turned from the windows where he was looking down at the city to hold the plump magistrate under his heavy cold brown eyes. “After all, they're breaking the law as highway men.”

“That would be an option your honor, but I'm afraid it's done before as I'm sure you remember.” the magistrate reminded him, “Within the decade new ones will arise to fill the need. Your office needs to execute an official program to address the underlying matter.” Georges had only assumed the title of President of Haiti six years ago. A younger hougan from Haiti's central highland he was a cold brooding man, his grandfather had briefly been president himself before falling ill and dying in his office.

Georges was a warrior though, his blood-line had raided against the Dominicans as far back as his grandfather's time. He wasn't as grand an architect as the man with him was hoping he'd be, or implying he try to be.

“Then send a stronger message, delay the next generation of brigands and we'll figure something out.” he said dismissively, “Don't just arrest the men have them hanged. Nail them to the rocks along the road-side if they have to be. Confiscate their belongings as contraband.

“We'll use that then to pay for a survey of the situation.” he added, summoning a relieved sigh from the man. Georges life had been one of anecdotes that pointed to this. There had been a man who was caught stealing another's pigs from his home village. His father summarily had his hands cut off with a machete in the village square; no one else had tried after. When it happened again when Georges had inherited the work of the village priest he did it again to the new thief, but also took a foot, there had been peace since, even if he had long retired to Port-au-Prince.

“Very well, should I write up an official warrant and bring it to you to sign?” he asked, more comfortable. The tension the short square man had held was gone, mostly.

“Yes, go ahead.” Georges beckoned and the magistrate turned and plodded out the door. As he left a new guest arrives

“If I were to have dealt with the brigands I would have ordered their blood drained as an extra gift to Kalfu so I may request strength against my enemies!” the new man laughed as he came to Georges with his arms outstretched. His wide brutish face was a smile hidden under a fiery two-pronged beard and his head of hair an untamed mess that fell over both his ears, but left the top of his head nearly flat.

With a roar the two men wrapped themselves in a warm embrace. “You're back, brother!” Georges exclaimed, laughing.

“Yes, but to leave again.” Georges brother, Wilguens Mahon, “I come to seek your blessings yet again as president of our faith land.” he said releasing his brother and laughing.

Wilquens was in his years older than Georges, but had a temperament more used to fighting than to ritual. While he enjoyed the finer aspects of honoring the more aggressive spirits, such as the drinking of gunpowder with added gunpowder or the sacrificial slaughter of pigs he could rarely bear going through the motions of the other Loa. Being in one place for very long was not his thing as well.

“You have yet to tell me about your last adventure though.” Georges begged as he sat on the windowsill.

“It was a grand adventure in nothing.” Wilquens moaned, “We looked to the Bahamas finding some overlooked treasure but only found miscreants and rogues exiled from their homes living among the mud of the Ghost Islands, hand fishing for crabs any anything that would come to the tidal shallows. For our troubles we picked up some men as slaves and a couple crabs. But our adventure to the American north was cut off short by a wind from the inland. I was bidden to return home so I did.”

“A shame.” Georges sighed, “So where will you go next if not further north?”

“I was thinking just this,” Wilquens smiled, “But I was thinking west. To first trade off our slaves here in port, purchase some rum and grass in Jamaica, and then head to Mexico or that whip of land that is the Mosquito Coast and Panama.”

“Then you have my blessings on this. How long will be in port?”

“For a couple days, but I must not be a merchant, brother.” Miquel said with distaste, “Me crew will have to unwind after their voyage. They have ass to chase after all.”