Quentin Aalbers introduces himself as a professional treasure hunter, but he gives the impression of a market trader trying to flog dodgy goods. Perhaps that’s who he was, in the days when he was alive – but that all was a long time ago. These days, Aalbers has to carry his own head around with him. If, indeed, the gold-plated skull with precious stones in each eye socket even is his, in any sense other than possession being nine-tenths of the law.
Either way, out here in the Lost Caribbean, having a shiny detachable skull proves to be rather useful. It can be lobbed into the path of an incoming guard, its glint drawing them from their patrol route and
