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Disclaimer:
Pirates of the Caribbean, Jack Sparrow, and other characters mentioned in this story are © by Disney and other entities. This is just a fan story. All characters not associated with Disney or any other big-name, stuffed-shirt companies, are © by the Author. Story is used only with permission from me, Patch, le author. :)
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Author's Note:
Just decided to replace the author's note cause it's waaaay too long. Just wanted to say that if you have any questions or nitpickiness about the story, just e-mail me at the address given on my bio page.
And to all you people who are quite precise in most aspects of the world and are neurotic about historical accuracy, know that, in this day and age, there is something called Poetic License. And if yer hung up about that, just remember this one thing:
It's my story and not yours, so nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah!
Toodle-Pip and All That Rot!
Roux
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No Heroes Amongst Thieves
A Novel
By: Roux
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Chapter One:
Moonrise in New Orleans
The sun slowly crept below the stretching horizon, such as a child would nestle beneath a blanket, giving way to incomprehensible night. The shining colors spread across the blue palate of sky, painting it a multitude of yellows and oranges and reds. Sunsets like this were a common occurrence, yet each was beautiful and much changed from the scene the day before. Today the fading light lit the waters of the gulf with an almost holy glow, making it near impossible to distinguish where the ocean ended and where the sky began. Not only was each sunset as new and different as dew on a rose in morning, people's responses differed as well. Whereas some saw the day's death as an end, as another life cut short in it's beauteous prime, others saw it as a new beginning, as a start to a life that was known only to those that walked the streets after dusk and before dawn. A life where money could buy anything that was desired: liquor, jewels, pleasurable company. Freedom. Yes, in those times, freedom could be bought and sold, traded for lives that seemed of no value except to the ones that lived them. Many were prisoners. And more yet were masters.
Caroline watched the day's end from her perch on the rooftops, a strange ache throbbing in her heart. It was lovely. To her it felt as if Heaven had suddenly decided to take up residence right in the Crescent City. Liquid gold splashed over her cropped head of coffee curls and down her cinnamon face, as if she could palm it and stuff her pockets to the brim with the plentiful sun-treasure. The humming light was pleasant on her skin, like soft flames licking her still form, warming the slow chill that had slowly been seeping through her veins these last few years. For a time, though it was considerably short, Caro was content.
Caro's hands found the pockets of her scarlet velveteen coat and she leaned against the chimney. Her brown eyes searched the horizon, but for what, she didn't know. Caro felt as if she was always searching, always searching, but never finding. Finding…what? Ah, yes. The other unsolved mystery.
Well, she thought, if that isn't a predicament, then I don't know what is.
Her hand found the stone in her pocket, and she rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger, creating warm friction upon its surface. It was a habit that she'd been drawn into the last few years; an unconscious motion that Caro practiced when she felt pensive and was sure nobody was looking. A traiteur had explained the stone to her; it's meaning, it's powers.
'It is a Moonstone,' she had said, a thoughtful tone to her voice. ' It is de traveler's talisman, used for protection on one's journeys and against the perils found on de way. It also brings insight to de owner and can soothe de mind and spirit. Dis stone will bring you good fortune, chile, so keep it safe. Dere may be a time when dis stone help you in your quests.'
Well, it hadn't helped her, really. Not yet. Caro kept it, though, just in case. One could never be too sure…besides, it was one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen: although it was not perfectly round, the stone's face was smooth and usually cool to the touch. In it were a multitude of colors, creating the opalescent glow that bounced off the seemingly white surface, a mystery in of itself. Sometimes Caro removed it from its special place in her pocket, just to look at it. The Moonstone was one of her most prized possessions, the others simply being a collapsible staff she had bartered off the docks, and a small, pocketsize book of Shakespeare's sonnets.
Caro started as a loud commotion suddenly broke out in the streets below. A loud, raucous voice could be heard screaming obscenities in French, followed by a protesting drawl, and accompanied by a loud metallic banging, as if the local blacksmith had suddenly gone on the rampage. Caro grinned. Suppertime in this particular section of New Orleans was always quite the ordeal, and Caro had forever thought of it as a bit of a spectator sport, rather like tennis, or perhaps roulette. She carefully made her way over to the edge of the roof and dangled her booted feet over the edge, hands on knees, leaning forward with blatant interest.
A large, red-faced woman, dressed in the garb of a cook, mobcap, apron and all, was brandishing a rather large ladle like a cutlass, shaking it threateningly in the face of a teenaged boy, who fended off the angry blows with a large cooking pan. The boy sputtered incoherently, obviously more than flustered at the furious onslaught, and attempted time and time again to rise to his feet, only to be beaten back with the oversized kitchen tool. The cook raised the ladle up over her head, appearing perhaps even more menacing than before, as if preparing herself for the exertion that resulted from the sound beating she was about to give the ungrateful whelp. Her blow fell, yet she was caught off guard as the ladle was suddenly snatched from her meaty hand, and her arm swung away with the powerful momentum that had built up, the result of an un-ladylike temper. Her mouth dropped open in astonishment, and her piggy eyes widened as much as was possible.
Before her stood a girl, a fille who was grinning from ear to ear, apparently amused by the entire situation. She was taller than the cook, but that wasn't saying much, for though the cook was overly rotund, and obviously well fed, what she lacked in height she made up for in weight. The girl, on the other hand, was slim, but not because she was a woman, which usually meant an appetite the size of a bird's. She was broad shouldered, and rather big-boned, but that could not hide the gauntness in her face, the remnants of starvation.
The girl wagged the ladle warningly, as if scolding a mischievous child.
"Now, now, is dat really necessary?"
The cook spluttered, her mouth forming silent words, a motion that provoked the girl even further, spurred on by the curious crowd that had gathered.
"I know, I know, my presence 'as rendered you speechless. My apologies, Mademoiselle, I forgot myself. It is not often that Caro appears in public, for de effect dat it 'as on de locals, mais, though it is flatterin', it is not always pleasing to de law enforcers." All this was interspersed by a few well-placed, flamboyant bows, with much twirling of the hands and flashes of an apologetic smile.
The cook didn't move, befuddled beyond belief. Where had this girl come from? The street had been void of any life almost moments before, but this girl, this Caro, had flown in from nowhere.
Flown?
The cook examined her adversary, who was still talking animatedly, continuing the flittering and the fluttering of her hands, obviously trying to make a point by the look of the obscenely large gestures she was using. The scarlet coat she wore appeared a bit ragged, signs that it had definitely seen better days, but the way the girl moved caused the coat to resemble strange, red wings, like some oversized cardinal on opium.
"So you see, Mademoiselle, it really is compulsory dat you let me replace dis pauvre es'cuse of a soup-spoon, it is not fit for de likes of your cooking, so I hear."
Caro looked on as the cook blinked stupidly, having obviously not listened to a solitary word she had said. She stole a glance at the boy, who had scrambled to his feet and was trying to sneak away as inconspicuously as possible, causing Caro to smirk inwardly. He wasn't being very inconspicuous at all; in fact, it was difficult not to notice him. He was trying much too hard.
"All right, den…Caro will just be going, neh?" She returned her attentions back to the cook, saw her swing, and ducked, allowing the offending object to pass over her head.
Marie, for that was the cook's name, had apparently overcome her speechlessness and now wielded a fire iron, having obtained it from her kitchen stove. She swung again and only just missed Caro's ear.
Caro's amusement had grown by the minute. She knew that servants in the local households were overworked, but this was just ridiculous! Finally she became a bit fed up with the cook's rather obnoxious behavior and sidestepped the old sausage, leaving the woman to overbalance and fall to the cobblestones in a daze.
"Ah! Now they fall to their knees at my feet! Mademoiselle, please, I am not deserving!" And with that, Caro sheathed the ladle in her belt and sped off down the street, not pausing to look back, for her ears told her all she needed to know.
Such language!
Caro laughed, unfolded her staff, and used it to vault up onto a vacant balcony; she then collapsed it and scaled the wall with the greatest of ease, reaching the rooftops in almost no time at all. Caro jumped from roof to roof, keeping an eye on the streets below, searching each face, this time, knowing what she was looking for. She located her quarry and climbed back down, using windows as footholds. Caro then jumped to the ground in one fluid movement, quietly enough so that even the most skittish alley cat did not bat an eye.
Caro raced out into the street, blending with the crowd, stalking her prey. She crept up behind the unsuspecting figure and kicked at his heel, tripping him.
He tumbled to the ground with an oath, and landed in a messy heap, having disturbed a trash bin. He looked up through a tangle of wood shavings and charcoal hair and into the grinning face of his assailant.
"Caro!"
She gestured as if to say 'well, you deserved it', and held out a hand. He accepted it, and Caro pulled him to his feet, only to abandon the limb so that she could swipe at the aberrant dirt and sawdust that had gathered all too noticeably on his black vest.
"Y'know, Carlos, de wooing of older femmes is not your strongest point, non? Dey're gonna kill you, mon ami! Stick to da sweet virgins and nuns, eh? Ya might have more luck!"
Carlos swiped at his friend with his free hand, the other being safely nestled in his pocket.
"What do you know, amiga, about the wooing of mujeres?"
Caro scoffed.
"You forget, Bra, dat Caro, she be a femme as well. A'course she know how to woo! Dough she prefer les hommes!" She laughed and performed a little hop-skip. Carlos rolled his eyes.
"Usted está loco, muchacha!"
"Well, Carlos, it take one to know one, hein?" Caro threw a jovial arm around Carlos' shoulder and tweaked his ear. "Mais, you love me anyway, podna!"
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The two strolled down the street at a leisurely pace, lazily stepping to the side to make way for passing carriages, tossing vivacious insults at the overly dressed drivers. Carlos informed Caro of his disastrous attempts to become a household servant, ears coincidentally deaf to the snickering abuse that his friend tossed at him.
They made their way to the docks; where everyday a new ship seemed to arrive at port, hulls stuffed with all sorts of treasures from places like Africa and the East Indies. Life at the docks was always plentiful and usually colorful by nature. Monkeys and birds with beautiful plumage were paraded; crates full of fruits such as oranges and bananas were carted off the large merchant vessels, ready to sell at market. And that which was most interesting were the plentiful sailors that walked the streets during their berth.
Despite the increasing darkness, both Caro and Carlos knew the area well, having come to the busy harbor many a time. Caro ran over to a particularly busy stretch of pier, on which loading and unloading cargo was happening faster than one could say 'petty theft'. Caro swiped a papaya, and then another, and hid them in her 'modified' pockets.
Carlos watched Caro work from his hiding place behind some bulky freight, slight unease bubbling up in his stomach. He knew what Caro was, he'd always known, but that didn't mean he had to be completely comfortable with it. He'd even helped her with a few jobs; not the big ones that Caro seemed to always take on, but little things. A purse here, a book there. Caro liked books. But she could not always afford them, so—
"Here ya go!" A soft, round papaya unexpectedly appeared in his face, sweet and tangy scent wafting into his nostrils. Suddenly he didn't care. Carlos reached up and grabbed it; he took a bite, letting the saccharine juice dribble down his chin. After a few more bites and some drawn out chewing, he swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Caro watched as he ate and chuckled.
"Boy, when was de last time you et? Easter?"
Carlos ignored her and continued eating.
Caro chuckled and took a bite from her own papaya. She cocked an ear and listened to snatches of conversation; news from outside always came with travelers, and Caro always used it as an opportunity to find out who had the most wealth stashed up. One never knew when the owner needed to be…relieved of it. Nobody could own that much treasure, be it gold or other such things, and actually be expected to use it all. So, every once in a while (that meaning often), Caro would go, and 'borrow' some of it. True, she wouldn't give it back, but it's not like they missed it, was it?
Caro watched as an older sailor trundled by, deep in conversation with his companion. The aging man looked as if he should have been sitting on the veranda of a house, telling stories of the sea to his grandchildren, fashioning their memories. The corners of Caro's eyes crinkled slightly; she had such memories. But it was so long ago…
The man's companion, however, was one whose appearance seemed to demand to be noticed: atop his head sat an old, weather-beaten tricorn hat, covering a full mane of shoulder-length hair, twisted and braided and decorated to messy perfection; a brown jacket rather like Caro's own trailed down to mid-thigh, half concealing the man's blue britches; and brown, knee-high boots clip-clopped against the wooden dock. But the most interesting element of the man was perhaps his swooping gait.
He walked as if he were in a leisurely hurry; each stride was widely spaced apart, almost like a stork's, but much heavier. His hips were entrancing; they swung from side to side with each step, engaging his torso in the same, almost deliberate movement, his hands dancing spiritedly through the air, as if to illustrate his words.
Caro arched an eyebrow.
Where had he come from?
She looked at the remaining flesh on her papaya longingly, and then back at the grandfather and his alluringly interesting comrade. Twice more she looked from papaya to man. Finally, she made a decision, hastily dropping the fruit and grabbing Carlos by the collar all in one movement, causing him to drop his own meal in surprise.
"Wha—?"
"Shush, no questions, yeuhrm?"
Carlos almost managed to choke out a retort, but Caro just tugged harder, cutting off his air supply. He gagged as she released it, causing him to fall to his knees, gulping in air.
"Madre del dios, era eso realmente necesario?"
There was no reply.
Carlos looked up, only to find an empty space where Caro had stood. He jumped to his feet for the third time that day and swirled around, searching for the curly-haired sprite that was his friend.
A flash of red caught his eye.
Carlos followed it inland, dodging passerby at an almost alarming speed, knocking, by accident, quite a few to the ground. He in turn shouted a polite apology over his shoulder and raced on, striving to keep the red blur in his sight. Carlos ran so fast he almost flew. He also nearly crashed into a wall.
Well, he thought, I suppose I overestimated that one a bit.
A hand reached out and clamped itself over Carlos' mouth. He gave a muffled yell, and struggled as he was pulled into the shadows.
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