Fic: "The Lost City" (1/5)
Title: The Lost City (1/5)
Author: cassyl
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jack Sparrow/James Norrington
Summary: Jack’s search for a fabled map leads him on an adventure that may mean more than he ever bargained for.
Warnings: This is AU like whoa. I also want to point out that, although many locations in this story are based on real places, they are all fictionalized versions of themselves. Furthermore, no copyright infringement is intended.
THE LOST CITY
“There is a tide in the affairs of men Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries . . .”
-- Shakespeare, Julius Caesar
CHAPTER ONE
A strange and sordid series of events had led him to Algiers. This was generally the way he liked things to go-the more sordid, the stranger, the better-but there was, after all, only so much a man could take. And Captain Jack Sparrow was at the point where a little bit of good luck would not be unwelcome.
It started with the mutiny, of course. Everything started with the mutiny. It seemed to Jack that he had not been alive before he was marooned. Everything before that was just a golden glow too distant to warm his face, and the loss of the Pearl ate at him like a disease.
But Jack Sparrow was not one to be easily subdued. After all, he had escaped that island, had come out of the ordeal with some allies amongst the rumrunners in that area and a smattering of Dutch learned from them during his time aboard their ship. Nevertheless, he could not forget or forgive Barbossa’s betrayal, and so, while his Dutch rescuers prattled amiably away, Jack made his plans. He knew what he had to do, and he knew he’d make any sacrifices necessary in order to do it.
The sticking point, as usual, was money. He didn’t have it, and it was the one thing he’d need if he wanted to launch a full-scale assault against a crew of ruthless, undead men.
Jack first sought funds through his usual channels. It wasn’t long before he’d used up all the favors owed him amongst the denizens of Tortuga, and it seemed that every hand of cards he turned over was a lost cause. Some of his moneymaking schemes were probably better forgotten, and for a time it seemed that every current in the world was turned against him. Until, that was, dear Roberta from the Crossed Keys put him onto a bit of business in the Barbary Coast. Jack had told himself he was done with Africa, but he knew those waters well enough, and it was, after all, a means to an end.
Of course, it was precisely that desperation that landed him in a Turkish prison not three months after he’s passed through the Straits of Gibraltar.
His cellmate was the one who first told Jack about the map. Jack had a good laugh at that, despite the agony it caused him. They were lying in the dark, the only sound that of rats scratching along the floor, and his laughter rang out loud against the damp stone walls. “Ain’t no such place, man!” he’d said, holding his ribs. “Plato made the bloody thing up. Whoever told you that yarn obviously recognized you for the credulous blighter you are.” The other man looked back at him out of sunken, glassy eyes, as if he pitied Jack. Two days later, the man was dead, though it was another week before the guards saw fit to remove the corpse from Jack’s cell.
Jack soon forgot all about the map and, indeed, about his cellmate, focusing all his waning energy on making his escape from prison. He thought of nothing else, blocking out thoughts of the Pearl, of revenge, even made himself forget the sweet salt smell of the sea, lest it distract him from his work. And when he finally breathed his first breath of fresh air in half a year, nothing had ever been quite as sweet.
Months later, Jack had not yet left Istanbul, still recuperating from his daring escape, and, more importantly, lying low until handbills bearing his likeness were no longer posted on every available surface. He’d cropped his hair and affected a limp, though in truth it was less fiction that he cared to admit, since his left leg would not support his weight as gracefully as it had once done, thanks in no small part to the kind ministrations of his Turkish captors.
One evening, while sharing a drink with a solemn Moorish sailor in a disreputable little tavern, Jack heard mention of the map again. He’d long forgotten his cellmate’s words, but something about the captain’s story rang true.
Intrigued, Jack asked him what he knew of the map. The sailor leaned forward towards Jack through the dim air, the lantern light shining golden on his cheekbones, and said, “I will show to you something amazing.” From a small pocket at his waist he produced an old coin, so worn it was nearly smooth. He held it out in front of Jack between his thumb and forefinger, and it was so close Jack could have closed his lips around it if he’d cared to. “This is a coin of the great City.” The Moor let him hold the coin in his hand, and Jack traced his thumb over the weathered surface of the coin. There was the faint impression of what might have been an embossed trident on one face. “There is great wealth there,” the Moor said gravely, “for anyone brave enough to uncover it.”
Jack didn’t think of himself as a particularly gullible person. Certainly he’d seen and done things that most men could never dream of, but there were limits to what he would believe. Even if he were prone to believing fantastic tales, he’d learned the hard way that a bit of something shiny could all too easily lead to trouble. Any stranger in a tavern could flash a bit of foreign gold and pass it off as ancient treasure. It was a tidy little scheme. And yet . . . there was some weight in the aged bit of metal that belied its meager size.
Soon an idea came upon Jack. Perhaps it was divine intervention-or, more likely, the heavy wine he’d been drinking all night-that planted the seed in his mind. He began to think that pursuing this prize might not be such a fool’s errand after all, if there was, indeed, as great a treasure as the Moor said. Though he’d seen the danger in seeking wealth for the sake of wealth itself-the debacle of Cortez’s treasure had taught him that much-Jack could see no fault in looking for it if one had a worthy cause in mind. And Jack certainly had that.
He bought the Moor another drink, and then another, and as they drank, Jack induced the Moor to tell him of how he had come by this bit of swag. The man complied with the subdued eagerness of a shy man who secretly yearns for an audience: Before trouble with the law had forced him to leave, the man had studied under a mystic based in Tripoli. This mystic had possessed a boundless store of treasures, ranging from simple jewels to the most obscure medicines. Amongst these rarities was an explorer’s chest, already quite battered with age when the mystic acquired it. It contained a map inside a gilded case and a handful of coins like the one Jack had seen. Though the Moor had never seen the map itself, only its extravagant case, he swore that it was genuine. He refused to explain how, exactly, he’d gotten his hands on the coin, and Jack had the suspicion that perhaps it was not the law the man had crossed but his old master.
It was ridiculously easy to convnince the Moor to tell him how to find this mystic. Shortly afterwards, the man slumped over the table, unconscious, and Jack didn’t even have the heart to empty out his purse, though he did palm the worn coin, tucking it into his vest pocket. He left the tavern and made his way down to the harbor, wasting no time in liberating the nicest little sloop he could find.
A storm nearly swallowed Jack alive as he passed Crete, but he arrived intact, if slightly weather-beaten, at the entryway of the mystic’s home in Tripoli. A demure young woman, who Jack thought might be the man’s granddaughter or niece, showed him into a large, sumptuous study, where the wizened old sage was seated on an ottoman, smoking a pipe. When they both had cups of strong, dark coffee in front of them, the mystic met Jack’s eyes and said, “You have not come to study with me.”
Surprised, though more at his excellent English than his insight, Jack said, “As a matter of fact, no.”
“What is it, then, that you seek?”
Jack sipped his coffee, calm restored. “You see, I’m something of a collector of antiquities,” he said, in as respectable a tone as he could muster. “I’ve come by a rather rare coin, and I’m given to understand that you may be in possession of its brothers.”
“Coins?” the sage said. “I cannot think of any coins I have in my collection.”
“No? Do you think a glimpse of it would refresh your memory?”
“It might.”
Jack slipped the coin out of his pocket and held it out in the palm of his hand. The old man picked it up and held it to the light.
“I cannot see that this is a very valuable money,” he said easily, almost coyly.
“Different things have different value to different people,” Jack replied, before adding casually, “As I heard it, the coins were part and parcel with some sort of old map?”
Something hardened in the mystic’s eyes. “I see.”
“Do you?”
“I no longer have this map,” the old man replied. “And I do not think I would be inclined to sell it to you if I did.”
“You seem to misunderstand me, your eminence,” Jack said, a predatory smile crossing his lips.
“How have I?”
“For one, I never asked you for the map. And secondly,” he said, pulling his sword from its sheath and directing its point at the old man’s chest, “I had no intention of buying it from you.”
Jack’s victim seemed completely unruffled by the appearance of the weapon. “I fear violence will bring you no profit, young man.”
“It very rarely does,” Jack replied. “But it’s not my aim to incite violence here today. Just consider this a little reminder of what could happen, under different circumstances. All I ask of you, mate, is the truth.”
“I have told you,” the sage said evenly. “I no longer have the map. I parted with it some time ago.”
“Parted with it. That’s an interesting bit of phrasing, if you don’t mind my saying. And where, if you’ll be so kind, your Excellency, is the map now?”
“I gave it to a man from your country,” the man said, glancing at Jack’s sword as if it were an ill-mannered dinner guest he would deign to ignore. “A geographer by trade, I believe.”
“A geographer.”
“I believe.” The mystic chewed on his pipe contemplatively, considering Jack from under his bushy white eyebrows. “He comes to me one year ago and he says he is searching for information about the deserts. He spends two weeks with me, writing down what I know of that land . . . Before he leaves, I give him the map you seek, because I see, here is a man who will appreciate . . . He had a truthfulness in his heart.” The man paused for effect. “Something that is not so common in all men.”
“We can’t all be exemplary,” Jack replied breezily. “Would you, perhaps, know where this geographer might reside?”
“I can tell you only that he makes his home in Algiers.”
“Well, that’s good enough for me,” Jack said, standing and slipping his sword back into its sheath.
“We are not all exemplary,” the sage said, as if they were still having a gentlemen’s conversation over coffee. “But neither are we all good.”
Jack chuckled. “I can’t say I’m particularly good, either, mate.”
The look the man gave him was so piercing that Jack felt as if he were completely transparent. “Perhaps . . .”
The stormy weather that had seen Jack to Tripoli escorted him all the way to the port of Algiers. By the time he arrived, his poor sloop was barely serviceable, and he left it in the hands of some eager young boys, who promptly started scrambling all over it, arguing rowdily.
After a struggle, Jack managed to find someone who spoke passable French in a small, unprofitable bookshop. The man knew of only one man in Algiers who answered to the description of ‘an English man with maps.’ He gave Jack some directions, hastening to add that the geographer was very well-liked, and said he hoped Jack was carrying good tidings for the man. If Jack’s words didn’t soothe his conscience, then certainly the fistful of coins Jack left with him did.
Which left Jack where he was, climbing upwards through the winding souks and alleyways that comprised the legendary Algiers the White. He was followed by the pleasant smell of strong spices carried on the salty sea air, and for the first time he wondered if maybe he luck wasn’t looking up.
Though Jack had visited Algiers only once before, in the company of a highly suspect Arab whom everyone had called Black Sid, he had little trouble finding the geographer’s house based on the bookseller’s directions. He knew the place almost at once, a proud whitewashed building on a quiet street. He knocked on the door and was admitted by a young boy, who had the command of a few English words. Through simple phrases and the use of broad sign language, Jack secured an audience with the geographer. The boy showed him down a dim passageway and stopped in front of a heavy wooden door before disappearing.
Jack knocked on the door, and was met with some cry in Arabic, which he could not decipher but assumed to be permission to enter. Pushing open the door, he was met with a sight that combined the foreign and the familiar in an oddly affecting tableau.
A man stood before him, clad in a blue dressing gown, his dark hair falling over his shoulders as he studied a map. There was a Persian rug draped over the table at which he stood, and on the white wall behind him hung a framed map of the world.
“You are the geographer, I presume?” Jack said.
The man looked up quickly. There was a window in the left-hand wall, and its light revealed him to be a gentleman in the prime of youth. For a moment, it seemed, the geographer was too startled to say anything. Then his handsome face broke into a pleasant smile, and he said, “Geographer? Yes, I suppose I am.”
“You seem a little unsure.”
“I mainly consider myself a cartographer, but no matter what you call it-Please, come in.”
Ever obliging, Jack stepped into the room.
“Excuse my manners, it’s been some time since I’ve met anyone from home. You can imagine my surprise. I’m James Norrington.”
“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Norrington.”
“Have a seat?” He gestured to the small table beneath the map of the world, where there was one wooden chair. “Can I offer you some refreshment, Mr. . . . ?”
“Smith,” Jack replied. “Perhaps something to drink? It’s a bit of a climb up here.”
“Of course. I have some excellent Xynomavro, if you don’t mind waiting a moment while I go retrieve it.”
“Not at all,” Jack said, settling down on the hard chair and making every sign of complete comfort.
Nodding, the geographer stepped out of the study. Jack listened until his footsteps had faded down the hallway before hastening to search the room. No sense in wasting time chatting if he could avoid it, he thought. The papers his host had been studying included several maps of the Barbary Coast, as well as some manuscripts written in a neat, cramped hand that Jack could only assume was Norrington’s own. If Jack had had more time, he might have paused to peruse those items more carefully out of simple voyeuristic curiosity, but as it was he moved on to the narrow wardrobe in the corner behind Norrington’s desk. It was not locked, and proved to be full of maps. Jack had only just begun sorting through them when Norrington said, “And what did you suppose you’d find there, Mr. Smith?”
“Ah!” Jack said, pulling his hands away from the maps as if they were on fire. “You’ve caught me snooping. Apologies, but I’m a frightfully curious type. Just can’t keep my hands to myself.”
“There’s no need for pretense, I think,” Norrington said coolly. “Better just to answer my question.”
Jack had been slowly, discreetly insinuating his hand under his jacket. “I think you’ll be the one answering my questions, mate,” Jack replied, turning quickly on Norrington, drawing his blade as he did so.
But here he was met with a surprise, for Norrington was not quite as unprepared as Jack might have hoped. While he was indeed holding a bottle of wine in one hand, the other was occupied with a firearm of not inconsiderable power, which was pointed at Jack’s chest.
“You’ll have to forgive my cynicism, Mr. Smith,” Norrington said. There was a sort of quelling dryness in his tone, as if Jack were just the latest in a line of poor fools who’d dared to cross James Norrington. “But you do have rather a disreputable look about you.”
“Being disreputable will do that,” Jack returned with a sharp grin.
“Indeed.” Jack might’ve been seeing things, but he thought there was a faint hint of a smile on Norrington’s handsome, composed face. “Do you think you’re very likely to divulge your purpose here?”
“Depends entirely on you, mate. D’you think you’re very likely to lower that weapon of yours?”
“I could ask the same of you,” Norrington replied. “Although, the way I see it, I’m at an advantage here. You might strike at me with your sword, but my pistol is faster, and I have distance on my side. So we’re at a bit of a stalemate. Until you surrender your sword.”
“You’re a clever one, Jim,” Jack said. “Perhaps a bit too clever.”
“Oh?”
“You assume too much, I’m afraid. You see, you have no knowledge at all of my character. Your logic is all neat and tidy-like if you assume that I’m a reasonable man. But I might not be. If I’m more taken with a devil-may-care attitude, given to, say, striking first and damn the consequences, then you be in a bit more trouble than he planned on. For all you know, I might be inclined to do something very stupid.” Without hesitating a moment longer, Jack lunged, knocking the geographer’s pistol out of his lax grip with the flat of his blade and causing him to drop the Xynomavro in surprise. The bottle smashed heavily on the tile floor, spilling dark wine all over.
“Sorry about that,” Jack said, squatting to pick up the pistol, eyes never leaving Norrington. “Hate to waste good drink, but sometimes it can’t be avoided.” He tucked the weapon into his sash and stood up. “And a word to the wise, mate: Don’t pick up a pistol unless you’re ready to use it. Now, enough advice for one day. I’ll have the map, if you please.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to be a bit more specific than that,” Norrington replied wearily.
“The map,” Jack said, “that will lead me to the Lost City of Atlantis.”
NOTES:
Obviously, this was written for the scruffy_love Sparrington fest. I was supposed to use single word prompts #s 72 & 111 (“Leave” and “Ship,” respectively), and phrase prompt #39 (“Jack and James somewhere other than England or the Caribbean”), but I wound up using “Ship,” “Somewhere other than England or the Caribbean,” and phrase prompt # 50, (“ ‘Trust me,’ he said.”). So-I’m close to what I promised to do, anyway. At least I finished.
Souk, a marketplace, not unlike a bazaar.
James’ appearance when Jack first sees him, and his study, are drawn directly from Vermeer’s “The Geographer.”
Xynomavro is a Greek wine. I learn useful things like this working at a Greek restaurant.
On to Chapter Two
Author: cassyl
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jack Sparrow/James Norrington
Summary: Jack’s search for a fabled map leads him on an adventure that may mean more than he ever bargained for.
Warnings: This is AU like whoa. I also want to point out that, although many locations in this story are based on real places, they are all fictionalized versions of themselves. Furthermore, no copyright infringement is intended.
THE LOST CITY
“There is a tide in the affairs of men Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries . . .”
-- Shakespeare, Julius Caesar
CHAPTER ONE
A strange and sordid series of events had led him to Algiers. This was generally the way he liked things to go-the more sordid, the stranger, the better-but there was, after all, only so much a man could take. And Captain Jack Sparrow was at the point where a little bit of good luck would not be unwelcome.
It started with the mutiny, of course. Everything started with the mutiny. It seemed to Jack that he had not been alive before he was marooned. Everything before that was just a golden glow too distant to warm his face, and the loss of the Pearl ate at him like a disease.
But Jack Sparrow was not one to be easily subdued. After all, he had escaped that island, had come out of the ordeal with some allies amongst the rumrunners in that area and a smattering of Dutch learned from them during his time aboard their ship. Nevertheless, he could not forget or forgive Barbossa’s betrayal, and so, while his Dutch rescuers prattled amiably away, Jack made his plans. He knew what he had to do, and he knew he’d make any sacrifices necessary in order to do it.
The sticking point, as usual, was money. He didn’t have it, and it was the one thing he’d need if he wanted to launch a full-scale assault against a crew of ruthless, undead men.
Jack first sought funds through his usual channels. It wasn’t long before he’d used up all the favors owed him amongst the denizens of Tortuga, and it seemed that every hand of cards he turned over was a lost cause. Some of his moneymaking schemes were probably better forgotten, and for a time it seemed that every current in the world was turned against him. Until, that was, dear Roberta from the Crossed Keys put him onto a bit of business in the Barbary Coast. Jack had told himself he was done with Africa, but he knew those waters well enough, and it was, after all, a means to an end.
Of course, it was precisely that desperation that landed him in a Turkish prison not three months after he’s passed through the Straits of Gibraltar.
His cellmate was the one who first told Jack about the map. Jack had a good laugh at that, despite the agony it caused him. They were lying in the dark, the only sound that of rats scratching along the floor, and his laughter rang out loud against the damp stone walls. “Ain’t no such place, man!” he’d said, holding his ribs. “Plato made the bloody thing up. Whoever told you that yarn obviously recognized you for the credulous blighter you are.” The other man looked back at him out of sunken, glassy eyes, as if he pitied Jack. Two days later, the man was dead, though it was another week before the guards saw fit to remove the corpse from Jack’s cell.
Jack soon forgot all about the map and, indeed, about his cellmate, focusing all his waning energy on making his escape from prison. He thought of nothing else, blocking out thoughts of the Pearl, of revenge, even made himself forget the sweet salt smell of the sea, lest it distract him from his work. And when he finally breathed his first breath of fresh air in half a year, nothing had ever been quite as sweet.
Months later, Jack had not yet left Istanbul, still recuperating from his daring escape, and, more importantly, lying low until handbills bearing his likeness were no longer posted on every available surface. He’d cropped his hair and affected a limp, though in truth it was less fiction that he cared to admit, since his left leg would not support his weight as gracefully as it had once done, thanks in no small part to the kind ministrations of his Turkish captors.
One evening, while sharing a drink with a solemn Moorish sailor in a disreputable little tavern, Jack heard mention of the map again. He’d long forgotten his cellmate’s words, but something about the captain’s story rang true.
Intrigued, Jack asked him what he knew of the map. The sailor leaned forward towards Jack through the dim air, the lantern light shining golden on his cheekbones, and said, “I will show to you something amazing.” From a small pocket at his waist he produced an old coin, so worn it was nearly smooth. He held it out in front of Jack between his thumb and forefinger, and it was so close Jack could have closed his lips around it if he’d cared to. “This is a coin of the great City.” The Moor let him hold the coin in his hand, and Jack traced his thumb over the weathered surface of the coin. There was the faint impression of what might have been an embossed trident on one face. “There is great wealth there,” the Moor said gravely, “for anyone brave enough to uncover it.”
Jack didn’t think of himself as a particularly gullible person. Certainly he’d seen and done things that most men could never dream of, but there were limits to what he would believe. Even if he were prone to believing fantastic tales, he’d learned the hard way that a bit of something shiny could all too easily lead to trouble. Any stranger in a tavern could flash a bit of foreign gold and pass it off as ancient treasure. It was a tidy little scheme. And yet . . . there was some weight in the aged bit of metal that belied its meager size.
Soon an idea came upon Jack. Perhaps it was divine intervention-or, more likely, the heavy wine he’d been drinking all night-that planted the seed in his mind. He began to think that pursuing this prize might not be such a fool’s errand after all, if there was, indeed, as great a treasure as the Moor said. Though he’d seen the danger in seeking wealth for the sake of wealth itself-the debacle of Cortez’s treasure had taught him that much-Jack could see no fault in looking for it if one had a worthy cause in mind. And Jack certainly had that.
He bought the Moor another drink, and then another, and as they drank, Jack induced the Moor to tell him of how he had come by this bit of swag. The man complied with the subdued eagerness of a shy man who secretly yearns for an audience: Before trouble with the law had forced him to leave, the man had studied under a mystic based in Tripoli. This mystic had possessed a boundless store of treasures, ranging from simple jewels to the most obscure medicines. Amongst these rarities was an explorer’s chest, already quite battered with age when the mystic acquired it. It contained a map inside a gilded case and a handful of coins like the one Jack had seen. Though the Moor had never seen the map itself, only its extravagant case, he swore that it was genuine. He refused to explain how, exactly, he’d gotten his hands on the coin, and Jack had the suspicion that perhaps it was not the law the man had crossed but his old master.
It was ridiculously easy to convnince the Moor to tell him how to find this mystic. Shortly afterwards, the man slumped over the table, unconscious, and Jack didn’t even have the heart to empty out his purse, though he did palm the worn coin, tucking it into his vest pocket. He left the tavern and made his way down to the harbor, wasting no time in liberating the nicest little sloop he could find.
A storm nearly swallowed Jack alive as he passed Crete, but he arrived intact, if slightly weather-beaten, at the entryway of the mystic’s home in Tripoli. A demure young woman, who Jack thought might be the man’s granddaughter or niece, showed him into a large, sumptuous study, where the wizened old sage was seated on an ottoman, smoking a pipe. When they both had cups of strong, dark coffee in front of them, the mystic met Jack’s eyes and said, “You have not come to study with me.”
Surprised, though more at his excellent English than his insight, Jack said, “As a matter of fact, no.”
“What is it, then, that you seek?”
Jack sipped his coffee, calm restored. “You see, I’m something of a collector of antiquities,” he said, in as respectable a tone as he could muster. “I’ve come by a rather rare coin, and I’m given to understand that you may be in possession of its brothers.”
“Coins?” the sage said. “I cannot think of any coins I have in my collection.”
“No? Do you think a glimpse of it would refresh your memory?”
“It might.”
Jack slipped the coin out of his pocket and held it out in the palm of his hand. The old man picked it up and held it to the light.
“I cannot see that this is a very valuable money,” he said easily, almost coyly.
“Different things have different value to different people,” Jack replied, before adding casually, “As I heard it, the coins were part and parcel with some sort of old map?”
Something hardened in the mystic’s eyes. “I see.”
“Do you?”
“I no longer have this map,” the old man replied. “And I do not think I would be inclined to sell it to you if I did.”
“You seem to misunderstand me, your eminence,” Jack said, a predatory smile crossing his lips.
“How have I?”
“For one, I never asked you for the map. And secondly,” he said, pulling his sword from its sheath and directing its point at the old man’s chest, “I had no intention of buying it from you.”
Jack’s victim seemed completely unruffled by the appearance of the weapon. “I fear violence will bring you no profit, young man.”
“It very rarely does,” Jack replied. “But it’s not my aim to incite violence here today. Just consider this a little reminder of what could happen, under different circumstances. All I ask of you, mate, is the truth.”
“I have told you,” the sage said evenly. “I no longer have the map. I parted with it some time ago.”
“Parted with it. That’s an interesting bit of phrasing, if you don’t mind my saying. And where, if you’ll be so kind, your Excellency, is the map now?”
“I gave it to a man from your country,” the man said, glancing at Jack’s sword as if it were an ill-mannered dinner guest he would deign to ignore. “A geographer by trade, I believe.”
“A geographer.”
“I believe.” The mystic chewed on his pipe contemplatively, considering Jack from under his bushy white eyebrows. “He comes to me one year ago and he says he is searching for information about the deserts. He spends two weeks with me, writing down what I know of that land . . . Before he leaves, I give him the map you seek, because I see, here is a man who will appreciate . . . He had a truthfulness in his heart.” The man paused for effect. “Something that is not so common in all men.”
“We can’t all be exemplary,” Jack replied breezily. “Would you, perhaps, know where this geographer might reside?”
“I can tell you only that he makes his home in Algiers.”
“Well, that’s good enough for me,” Jack said, standing and slipping his sword back into its sheath.
“We are not all exemplary,” the sage said, as if they were still having a gentlemen’s conversation over coffee. “But neither are we all good.”
Jack chuckled. “I can’t say I’m particularly good, either, mate.”
The look the man gave him was so piercing that Jack felt as if he were completely transparent. “Perhaps . . .”
The stormy weather that had seen Jack to Tripoli escorted him all the way to the port of Algiers. By the time he arrived, his poor sloop was barely serviceable, and he left it in the hands of some eager young boys, who promptly started scrambling all over it, arguing rowdily.
After a struggle, Jack managed to find someone who spoke passable French in a small, unprofitable bookshop. The man knew of only one man in Algiers who answered to the description of ‘an English man with maps.’ He gave Jack some directions, hastening to add that the geographer was very well-liked, and said he hoped Jack was carrying good tidings for the man. If Jack’s words didn’t soothe his conscience, then certainly the fistful of coins Jack left with him did.
Which left Jack where he was, climbing upwards through the winding souks and alleyways that comprised the legendary Algiers the White. He was followed by the pleasant smell of strong spices carried on the salty sea air, and for the first time he wondered if maybe he luck wasn’t looking up.
Though Jack had visited Algiers only once before, in the company of a highly suspect Arab whom everyone had called Black Sid, he had little trouble finding the geographer’s house based on the bookseller’s directions. He knew the place almost at once, a proud whitewashed building on a quiet street. He knocked on the door and was admitted by a young boy, who had the command of a few English words. Through simple phrases and the use of broad sign language, Jack secured an audience with the geographer. The boy showed him down a dim passageway and stopped in front of a heavy wooden door before disappearing.
Jack knocked on the door, and was met with some cry in Arabic, which he could not decipher but assumed to be permission to enter. Pushing open the door, he was met with a sight that combined the foreign and the familiar in an oddly affecting tableau.
A man stood before him, clad in a blue dressing gown, his dark hair falling over his shoulders as he studied a map. There was a Persian rug draped over the table at which he stood, and on the white wall behind him hung a framed map of the world.
“You are the geographer, I presume?” Jack said.
The man looked up quickly. There was a window in the left-hand wall, and its light revealed him to be a gentleman in the prime of youth. For a moment, it seemed, the geographer was too startled to say anything. Then his handsome face broke into a pleasant smile, and he said, “Geographer? Yes, I suppose I am.”
“You seem a little unsure.”
“I mainly consider myself a cartographer, but no matter what you call it-Please, come in.”
Ever obliging, Jack stepped into the room.
“Excuse my manners, it’s been some time since I’ve met anyone from home. You can imagine my surprise. I’m James Norrington.”
“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Norrington.”
“Have a seat?” He gestured to the small table beneath the map of the world, where there was one wooden chair. “Can I offer you some refreshment, Mr. . . . ?”
“Smith,” Jack replied. “Perhaps something to drink? It’s a bit of a climb up here.”
“Of course. I have some excellent Xynomavro, if you don’t mind waiting a moment while I go retrieve it.”
“Not at all,” Jack said, settling down on the hard chair and making every sign of complete comfort.
Nodding, the geographer stepped out of the study. Jack listened until his footsteps had faded down the hallway before hastening to search the room. No sense in wasting time chatting if he could avoid it, he thought. The papers his host had been studying included several maps of the Barbary Coast, as well as some manuscripts written in a neat, cramped hand that Jack could only assume was Norrington’s own. If Jack had had more time, he might have paused to peruse those items more carefully out of simple voyeuristic curiosity, but as it was he moved on to the narrow wardrobe in the corner behind Norrington’s desk. It was not locked, and proved to be full of maps. Jack had only just begun sorting through them when Norrington said, “And what did you suppose you’d find there, Mr. Smith?”
“Ah!” Jack said, pulling his hands away from the maps as if they were on fire. “You’ve caught me snooping. Apologies, but I’m a frightfully curious type. Just can’t keep my hands to myself.”
“There’s no need for pretense, I think,” Norrington said coolly. “Better just to answer my question.”
Jack had been slowly, discreetly insinuating his hand under his jacket. “I think you’ll be the one answering my questions, mate,” Jack replied, turning quickly on Norrington, drawing his blade as he did so.
But here he was met with a surprise, for Norrington was not quite as unprepared as Jack might have hoped. While he was indeed holding a bottle of wine in one hand, the other was occupied with a firearm of not inconsiderable power, which was pointed at Jack’s chest.
“You’ll have to forgive my cynicism, Mr. Smith,” Norrington said. There was a sort of quelling dryness in his tone, as if Jack were just the latest in a line of poor fools who’d dared to cross James Norrington. “But you do have rather a disreputable look about you.”
“Being disreputable will do that,” Jack returned with a sharp grin.
“Indeed.” Jack might’ve been seeing things, but he thought there was a faint hint of a smile on Norrington’s handsome, composed face. “Do you think you’re very likely to divulge your purpose here?”
“Depends entirely on you, mate. D’you think you’re very likely to lower that weapon of yours?”
“I could ask the same of you,” Norrington replied. “Although, the way I see it, I’m at an advantage here. You might strike at me with your sword, but my pistol is faster, and I have distance on my side. So we’re at a bit of a stalemate. Until you surrender your sword.”
“You’re a clever one, Jim,” Jack said. “Perhaps a bit too clever.”
“Oh?”
“You assume too much, I’m afraid. You see, you have no knowledge at all of my character. Your logic is all neat and tidy-like if you assume that I’m a reasonable man. But I might not be. If I’m more taken with a devil-may-care attitude, given to, say, striking first and damn the consequences, then you be in a bit more trouble than he planned on. For all you know, I might be inclined to do something very stupid.” Without hesitating a moment longer, Jack lunged, knocking the geographer’s pistol out of his lax grip with the flat of his blade and causing him to drop the Xynomavro in surprise. The bottle smashed heavily on the tile floor, spilling dark wine all over.
“Sorry about that,” Jack said, squatting to pick up the pistol, eyes never leaving Norrington. “Hate to waste good drink, but sometimes it can’t be avoided.” He tucked the weapon into his sash and stood up. “And a word to the wise, mate: Don’t pick up a pistol unless you’re ready to use it. Now, enough advice for one day. I’ll have the map, if you please.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to be a bit more specific than that,” Norrington replied wearily.
“The map,” Jack said, “that will lead me to the Lost City of Atlantis.”
NOTES:
Obviously, this was written for the scruffy_love Sparrington fest. I was supposed to use single word prompts #s 72 & 111 (“Leave” and “Ship,” respectively), and phrase prompt #39 (“Jack and James somewhere other than England or the Caribbean”), but I wound up using “Ship,” “Somewhere other than England or the Caribbean,” and phrase prompt # 50, (“ ‘Trust me,’ he said.”). So-I’m close to what I promised to do, anyway. At least I finished.
Souk, a marketplace, not unlike a bazaar.
James’ appearance when Jack first sees him, and his study, are drawn directly from Vermeer’s “The Geographer.”
Xynomavro is a Greek wine. I learn useful things like this working at a Greek restaurant.
On to Chapter Two