Fic: Metal and Words, 14/16
Title: Metal and Words, 14/16
Author: Aletheia Felinea
Beta: compassrose7577. Thank you so much!
Rating: PG-13 overall
Wordcount: ~1300, this chapter
Characters: (this chapter) Jack Sparrow, OCs
Genre: Gen fic supposed to be a crime story.
Time: Months before CotBP.
Summary: The sweet air of Tortuga can be dangerous sometimes, even for the certain Captain. And curiosity can kill a sparrow. Or... save?
Disclaimer: Not my hunting territory, The Big Black Mouse prowls here.
Previous parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13
Note: The fic was translated from Polish. Jeśli wolisz czytać w oryginale, zapraszam.
A gendarme at the bar apparently was trying to put a stern face on his weariness, but he still looked as if he regretted coming there for anything other than a drink, especially at that hour.
Never before had the innkeeper agreed more with the authorities. “Spaniard?” he repeated, glancing at two lower ranked gendarmes, armed with muskets, behind the first one. “I had some yesterday. Broke three mugs, damned Diegos. From Luceci... from Santa Lucia.”
Fleetingly, he considered adding something about the endangered belongings of honest, hard-working citizens, but decided it was better to not tempt fate and bored gendarmes. They might wish to take a look at those endangered belongings of his, and there were two barrels of water-thinned wine in the cellar, just by the door. Wait a minute. He suddenly remembered his brother-in-law, who for a week kept demanding forty livres for a barrel of wine, the same one that had been made into the two in the cellar. Hadn't it been said brother-in-law who had mentioned that some Italian wine merchant had ousted him from the supply contract for the Governor's mansion? Maybe a well-placed word or two could win some favors and put his brother-in-law in his debt, rather than the other way around. There was a chance to save those forty livres and maybe even another barrel. The innkeeper bent over the countertop with a conspiratorial wink.
“Can't serve you a Spaniard,” he said, in a whisper audible almost as far as out on the street, “but, Lieutenant-”
“Sergeant.”
“Oh, not for long, certainly. You see, Lieutenant, there's one very suspicious Dutchman hanging around here...”
But the gendarme was already turning away, his patience gone. With the two others close behind, they all disappeared through the inn's door, clearly rushed by the longing for their cots in the garrison's barracks.
***
At the town's other end, in a small alley, Jack Sparrow leant against a wall, catching his breath and resisting an urge to tear his feathery hat off. The wide-brimmed monstrosity worked like a mainsail against a headwind, reminding him of the variety of merits a decent tricorn offered, to any self-respecting pirate on an escaping course. Also, spurs are not exactly the best equipment for climbing elevations, he remembered, probing his freshly bruised knee. Fortunately, the mansion's lawn had turned out to be soft.
Warily, he peeked around the alley's corner and across the street at a signboard, with a mug painted on it. Light and noise pouring from a wide-open door, the tavern made a tempting shelter. Then again, sparrows fluttering happy-go-lucky toward any temptation tended to no live long. Jack sat on a step, produced an orange from his pocket and sniffed it. Could be more ripe, but it was hard to choose carefully when running in darkness.
Spitting pips, he waited through a dozen comers and few departees, two or three chanteys roared increasingly out of tune, one misunderstanding settled by fists in front of the entrance, and finally an armed and uniformed patrol. Three gendarmes pointedly didn't notice the brawl, dashed into the lit doorway, and even faster back out, to rush toward another tavern.
Jack waited three chanteys more and sneaked out of the alley.
***
Emilio stared gloomily into a half-empty mug. It was his third of the night and, like the other two, had no result. That is, strictly speaking it had, but a growing self-pity was not exactly the result he hoped for. French babble kept annoying him, and wenches' winks only reminded him of his empty purse. He considered he should perhaps go back aboard, Captain and his grudges be damned. Honestly, in a storm like the one the other night, the Devil himself would have lost his course.
“¡Noches, amigo! ¿Que pasó?”
Emilio, startled, looked up and blinked at what seemed an explosion of sapphire and gilded scarlet. He moved his eyes past the festoon of white lace and braided... braided beard? Ye gods, those hidalgos... and stopped at the grin gleaming like a sinful dream of Master of the Royal Mint.
“Um... noches, Don... er,” he stuttered, rising hesitantly from his chair.
A friendly, if breathtaking, thump at his back firmly pushed him down. “It’s Teniente.” The shiny hidalgo waved his hand carelessly. “As for you, amigo, Jaime will do.”
“Emilio Martí-“
“¡Mucho gusto, Emilio!” Teniente Jaime grabbed another chair, turned to the bar and yelled something in French. “Good to see an honest Spanish face, at last, between all those Frogs,” he said, sitting. “You look as if your mates have forgotten you and sailed away. You from the Lucecita?”
“La Doña Feliz. We're setting sails tomorrow.” Emilio glanced at the bottle, which had just appeared on their table, along with a second mug. The girl who had delivered them walked back to the bar, followed by Jaime's appreciative gaze.
Teniente turned back to him with a grin and uncorked the bottle. “You were saying something, amigo?”
Two hours, and a bottle and half later, Emilio was of opinion that life was great, the French wine excellent, Frenchwomen most charming, and above all, that there were no friends better than Spanish lieutenants, and certainly, one couldn't find better companions for cursing Spanish captains.
After three hours and unspecified number of bottles, Emilio blissfully listened to two off-keyed voices, singing merits of Spanish señoritas. At times, he vaguely realised one of the voices was his own.
And then, there was only a swaying buzz and the light mingling with a sweet smell, of wine or flowers, he couldn't tell, and the liquor embracing him, humming like the sea, and voices melting together with laughs, and the table which opened under him and swallowed him and he was drifting away, his head light and lighter and more... and more difficult... to lift...
***
The sun climbed a clear sky, promising a fair day.
To the contrary, Captain Olivares was in a definite stormy mood. On his more than solid figure, a bright orange coat, combined with white breeches, made him look like a huge bumblebee tossing angrily around the quarterdeck.
“Is Martínez already back?” he growled in passing to the First Officer.
Serrano, the First, heard the question for at least the sixth time that morning. Now he didn't even raise his head from the chart, trying to focus on calculating the course. It was not an easy task in Olivares' company. “No one has seen him today, sir,” he replied.
Grinding of the Captain's teeth was almost audible. “We must be in Santo Domingo in four days!”
Serrano bit back the remark that it depended more on the weather and Neptune’s moods, than leaving the port by dawn, instead of the noon. “Perhaps he's been arrested? Word on the docks is that the Gendarmerie is seeking some Spaniard.”
Olivares stopped in mid-step and looked back. “Gendarmerie? Seeking whom?”
“I don't know, sir. Seems they don't know themselves. There's only a description.”
“So what did they say?”
“That he smells of roses...”
“Quit joking, I'm asking seriously!” Olivares snapped. “I don't care about the Gendarmerie anyway! If we don't weigh anchor in an hour because of this scoundrel, he better not show his face, or he'll regret he hadn't landed in that pris-"
“Ahoy, aboard!”
Serrano, resting against the dockside rail, looked back. A few heads also turned on the main deck.
There was a man in a faded coat, a bulging sack over his shoulder, standing on the wharf and waving a worn tricorn. Apparently, that was its only purpose, because there was no way in earth it could fit over the insane, ruffled mane of its owner.
The vagabond grinned broadly and surprisingly shiny. “Could you use a helmsman?”
-----------------------------------------------
Footnotes
¡Noches, amigo! ¿Que pasó? - (Spanish) ‘Night, my friend! How’s it going?
teniente - lieutenant
Mucho gusto. - Nice to meet you.
---------------------------
The next part
Your thoughts most welcomed, as always. :)
Author: Aletheia Felinea
Beta: compassrose7577. Thank you so much!
Rating: PG-13 overall
Wordcount: ~1300, this chapter
Characters: (this chapter) Jack Sparrow, OCs
Genre: Gen fic supposed to be a crime story.
Time: Months before CotBP.
Summary: The sweet air of Tortuga can be dangerous sometimes, even for the certain Captain. And curiosity can kill a sparrow. Or... save?
Disclaimer: Not my hunting territory, The Big Black Mouse prowls here.
Previous parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13
Note: The fic was translated from Polish. Jeśli wolisz czytać w oryginale, zapraszam.
A gendarme at the bar apparently was trying to put a stern face on his weariness, but he still looked as if he regretted coming there for anything other than a drink, especially at that hour.
Never before had the innkeeper agreed more with the authorities. “Spaniard?” he repeated, glancing at two lower ranked gendarmes, armed with muskets, behind the first one. “I had some yesterday. Broke three mugs, damned Diegos. From Luceci... from Santa Lucia.”
Fleetingly, he considered adding something about the endangered belongings of honest, hard-working citizens, but decided it was better to not tempt fate and bored gendarmes. They might wish to take a look at those endangered belongings of his, and there were two barrels of water-thinned wine in the cellar, just by the door. Wait a minute. He suddenly remembered his brother-in-law, who for a week kept demanding forty livres for a barrel of wine, the same one that had been made into the two in the cellar. Hadn't it been said brother-in-law who had mentioned that some Italian wine merchant had ousted him from the supply contract for the Governor's mansion? Maybe a well-placed word or two could win some favors and put his brother-in-law in his debt, rather than the other way around. There was a chance to save those forty livres and maybe even another barrel. The innkeeper bent over the countertop with a conspiratorial wink.
“Can't serve you a Spaniard,” he said, in a whisper audible almost as far as out on the street, “but, Lieutenant-”
“Sergeant.”
“Oh, not for long, certainly. You see, Lieutenant, there's one very suspicious Dutchman hanging around here...”
But the gendarme was already turning away, his patience gone. With the two others close behind, they all disappeared through the inn's door, clearly rushed by the longing for their cots in the garrison's barracks.
***
At the town's other end, in a small alley, Jack Sparrow leant against a wall, catching his breath and resisting an urge to tear his feathery hat off. The wide-brimmed monstrosity worked like a mainsail against a headwind, reminding him of the variety of merits a decent tricorn offered, to any self-respecting pirate on an escaping course. Also, spurs are not exactly the best equipment for climbing elevations, he remembered, probing his freshly bruised knee. Fortunately, the mansion's lawn had turned out to be soft.
Warily, he peeked around the alley's corner and across the street at a signboard, with a mug painted on it. Light and noise pouring from a wide-open door, the tavern made a tempting shelter. Then again, sparrows fluttering happy-go-lucky toward any temptation tended to no live long. Jack sat on a step, produced an orange from his pocket and sniffed it. Could be more ripe, but it was hard to choose carefully when running in darkness.
Spitting pips, he waited through a dozen comers and few departees, two or three chanteys roared increasingly out of tune, one misunderstanding settled by fists in front of the entrance, and finally an armed and uniformed patrol. Three gendarmes pointedly didn't notice the brawl, dashed into the lit doorway, and even faster back out, to rush toward another tavern.
Jack waited three chanteys more and sneaked out of the alley.
***
Emilio stared gloomily into a half-empty mug. It was his third of the night and, like the other two, had no result. That is, strictly speaking it had, but a growing self-pity was not exactly the result he hoped for. French babble kept annoying him, and wenches' winks only reminded him of his empty purse. He considered he should perhaps go back aboard, Captain and his grudges be damned. Honestly, in a storm like the one the other night, the Devil himself would have lost his course.
“¡Noches, amigo! ¿Que pasó?”
Emilio, startled, looked up and blinked at what seemed an explosion of sapphire and gilded scarlet. He moved his eyes past the festoon of white lace and braided... braided beard? Ye gods, those hidalgos... and stopped at the grin gleaming like a sinful dream of Master of the Royal Mint.
“Um... noches, Don... er,” he stuttered, rising hesitantly from his chair.
A friendly, if breathtaking, thump at his back firmly pushed him down. “It’s Teniente.” The shiny hidalgo waved his hand carelessly. “As for you, amigo, Jaime will do.”
“Emilio Martí-“
“¡Mucho gusto, Emilio!” Teniente Jaime grabbed another chair, turned to the bar and yelled something in French. “Good to see an honest Spanish face, at last, between all those Frogs,” he said, sitting. “You look as if your mates have forgotten you and sailed away. You from the Lucecita?”
“La Doña Feliz. We're setting sails tomorrow.” Emilio glanced at the bottle, which had just appeared on their table, along with a second mug. The girl who had delivered them walked back to the bar, followed by Jaime's appreciative gaze.
Teniente turned back to him with a grin and uncorked the bottle. “You were saying something, amigo?”
Two hours, and a bottle and half later, Emilio was of opinion that life was great, the French wine excellent, Frenchwomen most charming, and above all, that there were no friends better than Spanish lieutenants, and certainly, one couldn't find better companions for cursing Spanish captains.
After three hours and unspecified number of bottles, Emilio blissfully listened to two off-keyed voices, singing merits of Spanish señoritas. At times, he vaguely realised one of the voices was his own.
And then, there was only a swaying buzz and the light mingling with a sweet smell, of wine or flowers, he couldn't tell, and the liquor embracing him, humming like the sea, and voices melting together with laughs, and the table which opened under him and swallowed him and he was drifting away, his head light and lighter and more... and more difficult... to lift...
***
The sun climbed a clear sky, promising a fair day.
To the contrary, Captain Olivares was in a definite stormy mood. On his more than solid figure, a bright orange coat, combined with white breeches, made him look like a huge bumblebee tossing angrily around the quarterdeck.
“Is Martínez already back?” he growled in passing to the First Officer.
Serrano, the First, heard the question for at least the sixth time that morning. Now he didn't even raise his head from the chart, trying to focus on calculating the course. It was not an easy task in Olivares' company. “No one has seen him today, sir,” he replied.
Grinding of the Captain's teeth was almost audible. “We must be in Santo Domingo in four days!”
Serrano bit back the remark that it depended more on the weather and Neptune’s moods, than leaving the port by dawn, instead of the noon. “Perhaps he's been arrested? Word on the docks is that the Gendarmerie is seeking some Spaniard.”
Olivares stopped in mid-step and looked back. “Gendarmerie? Seeking whom?”
“I don't know, sir. Seems they don't know themselves. There's only a description.”
“So what did they say?”
“That he smells of roses...”
“Quit joking, I'm asking seriously!” Olivares snapped. “I don't care about the Gendarmerie anyway! If we don't weigh anchor in an hour because of this scoundrel, he better not show his face, or he'll regret he hadn't landed in that pris-"
“Ahoy, aboard!”
Serrano, resting against the dockside rail, looked back. A few heads also turned on the main deck.
There was a man in a faded coat, a bulging sack over his shoulder, standing on the wharf and waving a worn tricorn. Apparently, that was its only purpose, because there was no way in earth it could fit over the insane, ruffled mane of its owner.
The vagabond grinned broadly and surprisingly shiny. “Could you use a helmsman?”
-----------------------------------------------
Footnotes
¡Noches, amigo! ¿Que pasó? - (Spanish) ‘Night, my friend! How’s it going?
teniente - lieutenant
Mucho gusto. - Nice to meet you.
---------------------------
The next part
Your thoughts most welcomed, as always. :)