Fic: Just business (5/?)
Remember this fic? Well, it isn't dead. I've just been distracted by Doctor Who recently. And rowing, and work, and other mundane Real Life Stuff. Anyway, I've managed to get another chapter done, and I think there'll probably be ne more after this too. Constructive criticism welcome as ever.
Title: Just business
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine, they're the Mouse's.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
When in Bombay, Beckett started each day with a large pot of tea, roti and dal, the latest-possible newspaper from London, and any dispatches that might have been delivered overnight.
His habit had been to read the newspaper first, despite it being at least six months old; but in recent days he had turned to the pile of letters while sipping his first tea of the day, flicking through to find the handwriting of his Company superiors.
Irritatingly, today was yet another day without the grand sealed document that would send Jack Sparrow to the gallows. Beckett pushed the rest of the mail aside and turned to the newspaper. But there was little of interest in it - a list of ships that had safely arrived at London, reports from Parliament, and so on. He folded the newspaper up and threw it on to a nearby table. Rolling up a neat parcel of dal inside a roti, he chewed and thought about Sparrow. The reports each day had been unvarying: the pirate ate what was given him, said little, and appeared to be spending most of his days sitting in a corner of his cell.
He finished his breakfast and went through the other letters, putting some aside to reply to later, noting the contents of others and throwing two or three on to the fire. The newspaper was next - the usual list of political rows, litany of crimes in London and punishments at Tyburn, and other petty matters. He finished it, and added it to the pile of documents for his secretary. Standing up, Beckett pulled on his coat. Really it was too hot in this country for the good cloth, but appearances mattered and so he would suffer.
Walking through the complex of offices, living quarters and the cells that housed the Company’s headquarters, Beckett greeted officers and agents. He passed by the cells, and looked in briefly on Sparrow, who seemed to be asleep in a huddle on the floor.
Outside the blazing sunshine made him blink, and as usual the colours and odours of the street washed over him in a rush. Beckett turned left, and made for the docks where he had business with Company ships.
The business took most of the morning, with cargo manifests to check, captains to meet and ships to inspect. Business seemed good, and everything was running as smoothly as it should.
Beckett was in a good mood as he turned to make his way back towards headquarters, swinging his cane with his head held high. So the attack, when it came, was somewhat unexpected. The cane was knocked out of his hand, a large, strong palm was clapped over his mouth, and he was dragged off swiftly into an alley where everything went black.
He woke up in the dimness of a room smelling of spices and incense, with his hands tied efficiently behind his back. He tested the knots, but they held well.
“Don’t count on ‘em coming undone,” said a voice. “Sailor’s knots, Mr Beckett. They’ll hold. Now, what have you done with our captain?”
Beckett tried to see his captors, but they seemed to be staying out of what little light there was.
“He’s due to hang,” he said, instead.
“When?”
“Soon,” said Beckett, hedging.
“He won’t hang,” the voice returned, laughing.
“I think he will,” Beckett said.
“He’s Jack Sparrow,” said the man. “Not easy to kill.”
“Who are you?” asked Beckett, squinting into the gloom. “I demand to know who you are!”
There was a whispered conversation, and then footsteps. A figure came into Beckett’s view - a vaguely familiar face.
“Sparrow’s mate,” he said, after a moment. “Turner, I believe.”
Turner nodded. “Good memory. Where’s the Pearl, Mr Beckett?”
“At the bottom of the sea,” Beckett said. “I thought you would all be with it.”
“The cap’n thought you might try something,” said Turner. “Put most of us off ship before you attacked, after we’d spied your frigate.”
“We just should have run,” muttered a pirate in the darkness.
“We’d have caught you, eventually,” said Beckett calmly, trying as he spoke to work out what the best way out of this situation would be. “However, as you gathered, Sparrow’s noble efforts rather backfired. Or, were fired upon, depending on which way you’d like to look at it. If you rescue him - which I must tell you will not happen - you have nowhere to run.”
“We’ll work something out,” Turner said. “That’s not your problem, Mr Beckett. Your problem is that you’ll have a cutlass to the neck if you don’t release the cap’n.”
“I should take your word?”
“If you want me word on the fact I’ll happily put a sword to you, aye, you have it,” said Turner. “Or I could let me mates have at you.”
There was a disconcerting chorus of growls from the darkness, and Beckett flinched.
“Cap’n said you were all about doing business,” Turner went on. “So here’s our deal. We’ll all take a walk, you’ll get us the key to the cap’n’s cell; we’ll give you the coin you paid for that bloody cargo.”
Beckett raised his eyebrows, although the effect would have been lost, given the gloom. “All the coin?”
“All of it. Jack don’t go in for blood money.” There was a pause. “Well?”
“All right,” said Beckett, deciding to play along, for the moment. He had no doubt that the threat to murder him was genuine; he was less certain about the offer of the money, but it was worth the gamble. “Untie me.”
Somebody came forward and gripped his arm, and Turner pulled out a small knife and slit the ropes. Beckett felt his hands come free, and he brought them in front of him and massaged the wrists to get the feeling back.
“Very well then,” he said. “Shall we?”
In daylight Turner, who was walking on one side of him, appeared to be a good-looking man despite the general shabbiness of his clothes. On the other side, Beckett recognised one of the slaves, now in sailor’s garb with a cutlass by his side. He could feel a solid mass of other men behind him, and mingling with the crowd close by - escape was out of the question.
So he took them to Company headquarters, where Turner and the slave accompanied him inside. They hovered while Beckett obtained the key to Sparrow’s cell from a guard, and then came close and followed him there.
Sparrow was asleep, but started awake when Turner went in and shook him.
“Has the wind changed, Mr Turner? Can’t you trim the sails without me?”
“Jack - we’ve come to get you out, you daft bugger,” said Turner.
Sparrow sat up, and looked about him. “Oh. Why?”
Turner hauled his captain to his feet. “Because we won’t see you hang. Come on. We ain’t got long.”
He draped Sparrow’s arm over his shoulder and half-carried him out of the cell. The slave turned a white smile on Beckett.
“Your turn,” he said, astonishingly in English, and pushed Beckett into the cell. The door slammed, and the pirates were gone.
“Damn,” said Beckett, and started calling for the guards.
Title: Just business
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine, they're the Mouse's.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
When in Bombay, Beckett started each day with a large pot of tea, roti and dal, the latest-possible newspaper from London, and any dispatches that might have been delivered overnight.
His habit had been to read the newspaper first, despite it being at least six months old; but in recent days he had turned to the pile of letters while sipping his first tea of the day, flicking through to find the handwriting of his Company superiors.
Irritatingly, today was yet another day without the grand sealed document that would send Jack Sparrow to the gallows. Beckett pushed the rest of the mail aside and turned to the newspaper. But there was little of interest in it - a list of ships that had safely arrived at London, reports from Parliament, and so on. He folded the newspaper up and threw it on to a nearby table. Rolling up a neat parcel of dal inside a roti, he chewed and thought about Sparrow. The reports each day had been unvarying: the pirate ate what was given him, said little, and appeared to be spending most of his days sitting in a corner of his cell.
He finished his breakfast and went through the other letters, putting some aside to reply to later, noting the contents of others and throwing two or three on to the fire. The newspaper was next - the usual list of political rows, litany of crimes in London and punishments at Tyburn, and other petty matters. He finished it, and added it to the pile of documents for his secretary. Standing up, Beckett pulled on his coat. Really it was too hot in this country for the good cloth, but appearances mattered and so he would suffer.
Walking through the complex of offices, living quarters and the cells that housed the Company’s headquarters, Beckett greeted officers and agents. He passed by the cells, and looked in briefly on Sparrow, who seemed to be asleep in a huddle on the floor.
Outside the blazing sunshine made him blink, and as usual the colours and odours of the street washed over him in a rush. Beckett turned left, and made for the docks where he had business with Company ships.
The business took most of the morning, with cargo manifests to check, captains to meet and ships to inspect. Business seemed good, and everything was running as smoothly as it should.
Beckett was in a good mood as he turned to make his way back towards headquarters, swinging his cane with his head held high. So the attack, when it came, was somewhat unexpected. The cane was knocked out of his hand, a large, strong palm was clapped over his mouth, and he was dragged off swiftly into an alley where everything went black.
He woke up in the dimness of a room smelling of spices and incense, with his hands tied efficiently behind his back. He tested the knots, but they held well.
“Don’t count on ‘em coming undone,” said a voice. “Sailor’s knots, Mr Beckett. They’ll hold. Now, what have you done with our captain?”
Beckett tried to see his captors, but they seemed to be staying out of what little light there was.
“He’s due to hang,” he said, instead.
“When?”
“Soon,” said Beckett, hedging.
“He won’t hang,” the voice returned, laughing.
“I think he will,” Beckett said.
“He’s Jack Sparrow,” said the man. “Not easy to kill.”
“Who are you?” asked Beckett, squinting into the gloom. “I demand to know who you are!”
There was a whispered conversation, and then footsteps. A figure came into Beckett’s view - a vaguely familiar face.
“Sparrow’s mate,” he said, after a moment. “Turner, I believe.”
Turner nodded. “Good memory. Where’s the Pearl, Mr Beckett?”
“At the bottom of the sea,” Beckett said. “I thought you would all be with it.”
“The cap’n thought you might try something,” said Turner. “Put most of us off ship before you attacked, after we’d spied your frigate.”
“We just should have run,” muttered a pirate in the darkness.
“We’d have caught you, eventually,” said Beckett calmly, trying as he spoke to work out what the best way out of this situation would be. “However, as you gathered, Sparrow’s noble efforts rather backfired. Or, were fired upon, depending on which way you’d like to look at it. If you rescue him - which I must tell you will not happen - you have nowhere to run.”
“We’ll work something out,” Turner said. “That’s not your problem, Mr Beckett. Your problem is that you’ll have a cutlass to the neck if you don’t release the cap’n.”
“I should take your word?”
“If you want me word on the fact I’ll happily put a sword to you, aye, you have it,” said Turner. “Or I could let me mates have at you.”
There was a disconcerting chorus of growls from the darkness, and Beckett flinched.
“Cap’n said you were all about doing business,” Turner went on. “So here’s our deal. We’ll all take a walk, you’ll get us the key to the cap’n’s cell; we’ll give you the coin you paid for that bloody cargo.”
Beckett raised his eyebrows, although the effect would have been lost, given the gloom. “All the coin?”
“All of it. Jack don’t go in for blood money.” There was a pause. “Well?”
“All right,” said Beckett, deciding to play along, for the moment. He had no doubt that the threat to murder him was genuine; he was less certain about the offer of the money, but it was worth the gamble. “Untie me.”
Somebody came forward and gripped his arm, and Turner pulled out a small knife and slit the ropes. Beckett felt his hands come free, and he brought them in front of him and massaged the wrists to get the feeling back.
“Very well then,” he said. “Shall we?”
In daylight Turner, who was walking on one side of him, appeared to be a good-looking man despite the general shabbiness of his clothes. On the other side, Beckett recognised one of the slaves, now in sailor’s garb with a cutlass by his side. He could feel a solid mass of other men behind him, and mingling with the crowd close by - escape was out of the question.
So he took them to Company headquarters, where Turner and the slave accompanied him inside. They hovered while Beckett obtained the key to Sparrow’s cell from a guard, and then came close and followed him there.
Sparrow was asleep, but started awake when Turner went in and shook him.
“Has the wind changed, Mr Turner? Can’t you trim the sails without me?”
“Jack - we’ve come to get you out, you daft bugger,” said Turner.
Sparrow sat up, and looked about him. “Oh. Why?”
Turner hauled his captain to his feet. “Because we won’t see you hang. Come on. We ain’t got long.”
He draped Sparrow’s arm over his shoulder and half-carried him out of the cell. The slave turned a white smile on Beckett.
“Your turn,” he said, astonishingly in English, and pushed Beckett into the cell. The door slammed, and the pirates were gone.
“Damn,” said Beckett, and started calling for the guards.