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Squaring Accounts - Chapter 10

by Melusina

Fandom: PoTC    Rating: NC-17    Dramatis Personae: Jack, Will, Elizabeth, Norrington    Full Header

The Magician
Magic-Singleness of Purpose-Power-Control

Breakfast was more hard tack and, for a wonder, a little fresh water. Elizabeth drank slowly, letting the water trickle down her dry throat and savoring every sip; it had a stale taste from the cask, but to her, it was sweeter than any wine.

Jack had given her the lion's share of the water, settling instead for the mouthful of rum in his flask. When it was drained, he shook it mournfully and tossed it aside. "I'd sell my black soul for another taste of rum."

"Or chocolate," Elizabeth said dreamily, thinking of the little tray Estrella used to bring her every morning, with steaming hot chocolate and buttered toast.

"Coffee!" Will and Norrington said in unison. They looked at each other and laughed. Will's cheeks tinged pink and he looked away, and Norrington's laughter trailed off.

"In truth," Norrington continued, in a forced tone, "If the devil appeared, I'd hold out for eggs and sausage to go with the coffee."

"Not me," said Jack, eyeing Will speculatively. "I'd take whatever he was offering. It'd have to be better than this. 'Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows,' eh, Will?" He met Will's sharp glance with a bland expression.

Elizabeth looked from Will to Norrington to Jack, but they seemed to have closed ranks in some sort of masculine solidarity, and there was no hint to explain this strange byplay.

*

The excitement brought on by Tommy's appearance had served to diminish James' embarrassment, but as the day wore on, he couldn't help reflecting on it again. He was painfully aware of Will's presence, and veered from humiliation to desire as he remembered the sounds and smells from the previous night. The shame, if not the desire, seemed to be shared by Will, who flushed every time he caught James' eye.

They were all on edge, waiting for the long day to end so that they could plot in earnest. Will was quiet and still, but for his fingers drumming nervously against the bars. Sparrow seemed vexed and repeatedly baited Will with mysterious and insinuating comments.

Elizabeth looked alternately confused and irritated and finally snarled, "For the love of God, Will, stop that tapping before you drive us all out of our wits!"

"My apologies," Will said stiffly, and, with visible effort, he kept his hands still.

When James was again summoned to meet with de la Cruz, he almost welcomed the distraction, so weary was he of the snide comments and Will's obvious misery.

To James' surprise, he was rowed across to the erstwhile Wasp. The sleek brigantine looked much as she had when she'd been moored in Port Royal; his eye could detect neither fresh paint nor changes to her rigging. There was nothing about her appearance that could explain the speed with which she'd snared the Black Pearl. And yet, the feel of her was entirely different. When James clambered onto the deck, he had an odd sensation of vertigo, and distantly, he thought he smelled the sickly sweet scent of corruption and rot, although the ship was outwardly neat and polished.

De la Cruz sat in the sumptuous great cabin, wearing an expression of great triumph, the ubiquitous priest standing behind him. James' heart sank when he saw who sat beside de la Cruz, eating a plate of fragrant roast pork and fried dough dripping with honey -- Wickham.

"Commodore, how good of you to join us. As you can see, your little charade is at an end. Señor Wickham has been very forthcoming about your identity."

Wickham licked the honey from his lips and sketched a mocking bow. James threw him a look of pure disgust before turning to de la Cruz. "Whatever you may think, I have no nefarious purpose. It is mere chance that I am here at all."

"I see. Why then did you see fit to lie to me?"

"To prevent this very thing from happening!" James insisted, despairingly. He had no real hope of convincing this madman of the truth, but he had to try. "I have no wish to incite a war between our two countries. There is still time to correct this misunderstanding. . ."

"I believe I understand very well, Commodore Norrington. It is you who have failed to appreciate the seriousness of your position. This is no game, sir, as you will see presently."

The priest spoke for the first time, his voice low and sonorous. James could not follow all the Spanish, but he picked out "It is nearly time" and "the dark of the moon and the heat of the sun."

Wickham leaned forward, confidentially, and said, "I wanted it to be that bastard Gibbs, but they wanted someone young and healthy. And not Turner nor Sparrow, neither. So I suggested Hans -- I'm still feelin' the kick he gave me on the way to the brig. One good turn deserves another, eh?"

James stared, trying in vain to make sense of this. Were they perhaps going to hang one of the men, as an inducement to Sparrow to talk?

Wickham smirked and leaned back in his chair, nonchalantly tossing back his wine. De la Cruz clapped his hands and gestured at James, and the sailors who'd brought him to the Princessa hustled him out onto the quarterdeck. One of the Pearls - presumably Hans -- was stripped to the waist and struggling with two Spanish sailors, who held him firmly in their grip. James' skin crawled with apprehension and he leapt forward. He was stopped by an enormous Moor, who, following a command from de la Cruz, chained James' hands to the taffrail.

"You will observe," de la Cruz said, smiling unpleasantly, "But you will not interfere."

James' pulse raced, and he could hardly breathe for the horrid anticipation. The air crackled with some kind of galvanic force, and the hair on James' arms prickled. Something awful, something obscene was about to happen, but he couldn't guess what.

The priest pushed back the heavy sleeves of his cassock, revealing a rough-hewn blade of what appeared to be black rock. James heard himself exhale sharply and the sound was echoed by Hans, who began to thrash about frantically. The Moor backhanded Hans, shocking him into a momentary stillness, and then pulled the scarf from his own neck, and tied it around Hans' mouth. The men restraining Hans bent him back awkwardly over a barrel, and held him, stretched and still.

The speculation in James' mind was assuming a dreadful clarity, and yet he could hardly believe it, even of someone as cruel and decadent as de la Cruz seemed. There was an unnatural, expectant silence; no one spoke, and even the usual shipboard sounds were muted. The priest tipped his head back, watching the sun.

At the instant it slipped directly overhead, the priest plunged the blade into Hans' stomach. The skin tore like ripped muslin, and then the priest's hands were dipping into the man's chest, ripping out a lump of flesh. Sickened, James turned away from the fountain of blood. But he couldn't shut out the metallic smell of death or the sound of the priest's discordant chanting. The language was unfamiliar, but the harsh sounds filled him with a dark foreboding.

With a final guttural shout from the priest, it was over, and Hans' body splashed into the water below. The priest casually wiped his hands on his robe, which was soaked through with blood. A fine shower of blood had covered everyone on the quarterdeck, leaving them speckled as if with the pox, and de la Cruz fastidiously dabbed at his face with a lacy handkerchief. More blood dripped down James' hands, and he realized he'd been straining so hard against the manacles that they'd cut into his wrists.

The dizziness James had been fighting since he came aboard the Princessa intensified, and he felt vaguely queasy. Although the sea was calm, the ship began to pitch and heave, moving to some strange current that James could not see. He was reminded of the Black Pearl, as he'd first seen her, carried along by the wind in spite of her tattered sails. But this was darker, more ominous even than the change he'd felt after Elizabeth fell into the ocean. The feeling that something was not right was familiar, but now James sensed something malevolent and intentional in the air, as if some evil presence had been summoned by the perverse ritual.

The breeze picked up, bringing with it a fetid smell of decay. The foul-scented wind swirled around the ship, filling the sails until they groaned and strained. Only a few feet away, the Pearl's sails were slack and empty, and she seemed to lie in shadow, although the air around the Princessa shimmered with heat and sun. De la Cruz gave a pleased sigh. "Do you see? We already have the keys to power. We will not be thwarted."