By dawn, at least one drunken sailor would be whispering to his friends that the King had summoned Count Rhys to a clandestine meeting on the Isle of the Drowned, while another claimed that it was a ghost of a drowned prince who haunted the isle and only descendants of the First Crew could put him to rest…
The tales would be taller than a ship's mast, and they'd hold as much water as a fisherman's net, but that wouldn't matter. All that would matter was that the rumor would be too dangerous to whisper into the ears of the king's men or the Church.
Rhys might not be able to do anything to keep these men from talking when they had a bellyful of ale, but he could at least ensure that when they did speak about tonight, they spoke in whispers that were so quiet, the rumors would fade away like morning fog on a stiff breeze.
