Summary: Sri Sumbhajee Agria, Pirate Lord of the Indian Ocean and Terror of the Arabian Sea, has been captured by the EIC acting on orders from Lord Cutler Beckett. They want to know many things but will they be able to hold the man who is rumored to have mystic powers? Po8 Challenge.
Author's Notes: This is in answer to the Pieces of Eight challenge on the Black Pearl Forum. Thanks to ShahbanouScheherazade (AKA Zaydee) for beta reading this piece. There are eight other stories in this challenge. Links to them can be found here:
www dot fanfiction dot net/topic/67105/19502591/3/PotC-Fanfiction-Story-Recommendations#80473192
The Giving Horn
Rolling over in his bed of half rotted straw, Sri Sumbhajee Agria, Pirate Lord of the Indian Ocean and Terror of the Arabian Sea, scratched furiously at yet another flea bite. He gritted his teeth but uttered no sound. He would not give his captors such pleasure if they were listening. It was dark now, which seemed right. They had questioned him for hours after they took him in the street, killing his loyal bodyguards in the process. His men had done well, but there had been too many of the East India Company's blackcoats and the surprise had been too complete. In addition to his four bodyguards, the blackcoats had left seven of their own men dead, two of which Sumbhajee had dispatched himself.
Once safe in their fort, the blackcoats had dragged him to the holding cells and beaten him. They had questioned him about the other Pirate Lords and about Shipwreck Cove. They had asked him if he had a tongue or had been born mute. He did have a tongue, of course, and he had not been born mute. Sumbhajee simply refused them the satisfaction of hearing him speak in his crippled voice. Ever since the sword thrust to his throat that had nearly killed him, Sumbhajee's voice had been high and piping like that of a eunuch. It shamed him so that Sumbhajee spoke to none save his aides and a very few picked men, half of whom were now dead.
Finally, they cursed him, and then they had done something he could never forgive. They had stolen from him. They had stolen the pagri* from his head, unwinding it in search of hidden valuables. They had stolen his richly embroidered sherwani**, splitting the back seam as they yanked it off his shoulders. They had also stolen his belt, his weapons, his jewels and his purse. They had even stolen his boots. He was quite furious about that, in particular, because he had purchased those boots legally from a cobbler in Bombay who had carefully measured his feet and sculpted the boots especially for him. Those boots were the single most comfortable footwear he had ever worn in his entire life! And now that dolt of a guard was stomping around in them as if he were some great man. Sri Sumbhajee would see about that.
Though they had taken much, and certainly had taken everything worth gold to a common merchant, Sumbhajee yet had one possession far more valuable. He suspected it would be the key to his salvation as it had been before. He'd found it where they had dropped it on the floor of this cell after they left him dazed and bleeding. It now lay upon his chest beneath the thin cloth of his kurta†. He slipped his fingers between the buttons and drew out the little calf horn snuff box he'd been given many years ago. It had been on the day he had been stabbed in the throat while protecting his captain. He failed to do so, but after they escaped the battle, Captain Abhayan had had Sumbhajee brought to his cabin. Abhayan was lying upon his bed, bandaged over his chest and right arm. Sumbhajee had never seen a man so grey and pale. Abhayan's skin was beaded with sweat. He shivered weakly as his retainers held Sumbhajee upright. The captain had motioned that Sumbhajee should be lowered so that he could speak to him. Only a few whispered words did the captain breathe before thrusting the snuff box into Sumbhajee's hand, and then he lay back and died. Sumbhajee had understood he had been made the new Pirate Lord of the Indian Ocean that day, but he had not understood the meaning of the last words until weeks later.
His throat had not healed quickly, and he was weak from a fever lying abed in the great house in Bombay. It was late in the night and he was thirsty, thirstier than he could remember ever having been, and Abhayan's words came back to him. "If you need food or drink, ask the horn." Sumbhajee had thought they were the muddled words of a dying man, but he had been so desperate for water or wine that he had whispered to the horn. He'd pulled the cap off the snuff box and water as clear and pure as a mountain spring poured out. He'd drunk deeply, and when his thirst was sated, he'd capped the box again. His fever would not abate in the following days, and his physician had given up hope, but Sumbhajee called upon the horn again. He'd asked for medicine to heal his wound and drive off the fever. The horn had yielded a pellet the size of an orange pip, and Sumbhajee had swallowed it. Bitter though the pellet was, in a week's time he was on his feet, and the wound was healed.
He needed neither medicine nor water now. He needed to escape, and he suspected the horn could help him. The bars to his cell were strong and the lock well made. Even if he had a key the hinges would squeal like a stuck pig, he knew. But the bars were not fitted too closely together. Were he a younger man with fewer good meals in his past, Sumbhajee might have tried to slip between them. Now, approaching fifty years and fatter than he should have been, it would take a miracle. Or some grease.
Sumbhajee levered himself to his feet and staggered to the locked door. His head felt light, but he had been much worse off a time or two.
"Olive oil, my little friend. I need olive oil," Sumbhajee whispered to the calf horn. Then he drew off the cap and upended the snuff box, next to one of the bars. Out poured the purest, most fragrant olive oil there had ever been. Sumbhajee poured a liberal amount on both bars before recapping the horn. As quickly as he could, he stripped the kurta from his back and the shalwar†† from his legs. Sumbhajee then thrust his head between the bars and turned his shoulders sideways. His torso slipped through, but he was betrayed by his belly. He sucked in his breath and twisted. He pushed with his legs and arms. Gradually his belly slid between the unyielding bars until, with a slithering rush, Sumbhajee burst into the narrow hall of the lock hole like a babe from its mother's womb. Quickly he got to his feet and reached back through the bars for his clothes. Once dressed, he crept silently through the dark to the wooden door separating the guardroom from the cells. It was ajar a few inches. He peered through the narrow opening and saw his stolen boots propped up on the edge of the table. Listening, he made out the sound of a sleeping man's breathing, the thief himself. Sumbhajee listened and thought. If there was only the one guard, he stood a chance of escaping not only the cells but the fort. If he could keep the guard from raising an alarm, he could get out, and wouldn't that make his reputation even greater?
"Now, my little friend, I need curry powder. The hottest there is," Sumbhajee whispered to the horn. He wiped his palm on his kurta to clean away any traces of the olive oil then opened the box and poured the powder into his palm. Closing his fingers over the mound of spice, he threw his shoulder into the door and drove it open with a loud grating of the hinges.
The guard snapped awake in utter shock at the noise. His eyes flew wide on seeing Sumbhajee coming at him. Before he had a chance to call out for help or reach for a weapon, Sumbhajee cast the curry powder in his face. The man tumbled backward with the burning spice in his eyes, his nose and his mouth. He scrambled to get clear of his toppled chair and wiped desperately at his burning eyes. The guard fought for breath, but it was torture. He could neither breathe in nor cry out for the powder was like flame in his throat, causing it to contract. He struggled desperately to find the water bucket, his nose running freely. His whole face felt like it was on fire as he flailed about.
Sumbhajee calmly lifted a heavy stick from the pile of firewood and struck the guard one resounding blow upon the back of his head. The man went down and ceased to move.
A few minutes later, a figure stepped into the darkened courtyard of the fort. He was dressed in the regulation black coat, black hat and black trousers of the East India Company's marines. He strode confidently across the open space to the front gate and passed through without challenge. No one noticed the very expensive, incredibly comfortable boots upon his feet.
AN: This is one of nine stories in the Pieces of Eight Garden Party Challenge on the Black Pearl Forum. The rest of the stories can be found here:
www dot fanfiction dot net/topic/67105/19502591/3/PotC-Fanfiction-Story-Recommendations#80473192
Footnotes:
*Pagri - Common name for the traditional Indian style turban.
**Sherwani - A kind of jacket similar in use to a European frock coat.
†Kurta - A loose fitting, traditional Indian undershirt.
††Shalwar - A loose fitting pair of traditional Indian trousers.