A/N: yup, no sense of self control. Also, as a random note – I actually didn't really enjoy Robbie William's earlier work, up until I purchased the "Swing" CD and fell in love with his jazz songs. This song "Sin, Sin, Sin" was heard on the radio, and isn't jazz, but the lyrics were evocative. Historical inaccuracies.

Hush hush hush

To speak is a sin

And neither of us

Need rescuing

James Norrington, in the midst of negotiating a purchase of mangoes from a rheumy-eyed, gap-toothed native of the suspicious variety, paused in the middle of his patient reiteration (mangoes only, not any bloody oranges, and certainly not bananas) at the sound, faintly audible in the thrum of commercial humanity around him, at the very edge of the sprawling bazaar, of a violin.

A rich, pure, trembling tone with a perfect harmony of darkness and light, with a clarity so flawless it would resound with anyone who possessed even a fraction of a musical soul. A sonata in a minor key, played with effortless virtuosity that did not belong in the chokingly crowded business district of Calcutta, punctuated by a dizzying babble of words in various languages, curses, haggling, greetings, permeated by the scent of Indian butter, spices and rank sweat.

Handel.

The fruit seller, sensing an opportunity, pushed the bag of oranges into his hands, and grinned, in a silent promise to extend the issue indefinitely if need be. Curiosity won out over irritation. James paid up. In return, a mahogany-brown finger pointed towards an alley between two pucca houses, with a few words in heavily mangled English and the local dialect. "…white… Saraswati… gift."

The winding, cobbled alley led to an enclave ringed by whitewashed buildings, within which the noise of the bazaar was muted. A tree provided shade from the merciless Indian sun, and James found he was a latecomer to the solo performance. Natives sat on warm cobbles or on neatly stacked crates against the walls, by far the majority, silent, largely elderly men, women and children. He was the only European – other than the violinist.

A small man, eyes closed, before the trunk of the tree, a dancer's fluidity in a boneless sway as elegant fingers and a delicately wielded bow made the instrument sing in a complexity of tone that James had once heard before, in his childhood, in a concert hall in London, taken there as a treat by an eccentric musician-uncle. He remembered the excitable lecture he had sat through in the intermission, the praise of the unique sound that danced like candlelight. Rich, varnished wood sketched with lines of amber.

Intricate riffs connected by flickering timbre. The wind plucked at the violinist's bound, almost-black hair, pulled back tightly to the back of his skull with a gray ribbon. A high forehead furrowed in concentration, thin lips slightly parted. White cuffs rolled to the elbows. A frayed gray coat, neatly folded, on a stool beside the violinist, and a worn, black case. Entranced by music so exquisite that it was almost painful.

He leaned against a whitewashed wall, and resigned himself to the reproach he would have to endure afterwards from a hungry Post Captain with strange cravings for exotic fruit, for being late. Of all places, James Norrington hadn't expected to encounter perfect beauty in Calcutta.

--

Beckett opened his eyes with reluctance after the final, lively chords of one of Handel's sonata da chiesas. He didn't acknowledge the applause from his audience – instead rolling his shoulders to stretch a kink, and playing a quick scale. D major. Another. Simple exercises that signaled the end of his play – some of the regulars of the unasked-for audience were already beginning to leave, stretching and speaking quietly to themselves in their chattering dialects. He was due back in Fort William.

Placing his violin lovingly in the velvet-lined case, then the bow, he snapped it shut. Picked up case and coat. Ramakrishna, his banian, uncurled his lanky form from the branches above and slipped down to the cobbles, yawning. "Already time, young sah?" Exotically accented English. Clear black eyes crinkling into another yawn, disturbing cracks as he stretched out cramped muscle, the ever-present rolled tobacco in a corner of his mouth. A formless, billowing shirt of yellowing cotton was haphazardly tucked into a tattered brown sash at his waist, breeches of the same hue folded into cuffs at dusty ankles pushed into sandals. A scarred hand absently rubbed his domed scalp. Sunlight caught off thick gold earrings.

"You're probably the only person I know who could fall asleep during Handel's sonata in G Minor's allegro," Beckett said dryly, as he settled the coat over an arm.

"You might indeed be gifted by Saraswati like the holy men say, esteemed sah," Ramakrishna grinned, displaying startlingly white teeth at odds with his lascar's appearance, "But I fear that your excellent performance is wasted on my tin ear. And I can fall asleep during anything."

"But eating and cricket," Beckett amended.

"But that," Ramakrishna agreed. "And we are nice and close to the bazaar, and it is your turn to buy lunch."

"I bought lunch yesterday."

"I forget." Innocent black eyes. A pause. "I want…"

"If I'm buying lunch, I choose," Beckett said firmly. Mellowed by music, the mood was too perfect to be spoiled by argument, which was probably why, despite his tin ear, Ramakrishna always followed him around on his break.

He blinked at the sight of a tall European, leaning against the wall near the mouth of the alley. Short, chocolate-brown hair flopped over part of a pale forehead and brushed at expressive green eyes. An aquiline nose that stopped short of sensuous lips curved into a diffident smile. The man was dressed in a simple cotton shirt and brown breeches, black boots – the only hint of who he could be an unadorned sword at his hip. Military, probably, or Navy. He uncurled from the wall when Beckett approached, meaning to push past him. "You're very talented."

"Thanks." Brusque. Beckett didn't want to have to deal with any members of his own race during his break, and it showed in his flat tone.

Unperturbed, the man fell into pace beside him. "And that's a fine instrument you have."

Beckett, half-expecting the next question to be 'What's a musician of your standard doing in India?' (predictable, of Europeans), frowned a little at that statement. Did the man…? His eyes fell down to the plain, buckled sword. Probably not. "Thanks."

The man's next comment made him pull up short. Ramakrishna nearly walked into him. "A Stradivarius."

Beckett stared at him, and then looked him up and down insolently. A nobleman, perhaps… out incognito for a walk, or a collector of curiosities? That exceedingly friendly, cultured tone aroused his animosity. Finally, just as flatly, he said, "It's not for sale."

The man looked startled. "I wasn't asking." That shy smile, again. "Do you play here often?"

"Only on Thurs… ouch!" Ramakrishna staggered back with a yelp as Beckett 'accidentally' stepped back onto unprotected toes. He stared evenly at the man, who now seemed amused, curious.

"I don't appreciate audiences." With that, he brushed past him and into the bazaar, followed by his limping, whining banian.

--

Post Captain 'Bobby' Ramsey accepted his explanation for the lateness of the mango delivery solemnly, his muttonchop moustache quivering as he spoke. "A violinist, you say."

Dressed again in his midshipman's uniform, James nodded, watching as Ramsey, with a reverence that was a little disturbing, began to cut open a mango on a plate with (of all things) a letter opener, on his desk, over a haphazard arrangement of dispatches. Post Captain Ramsey's eccentricity, unfortunately, extended to a filing system based on rather shaky, irrational logic and a whimsical organization of documents that was the bane of the lieutenants and midshipmen under his command.

"Yes, sir."

"Any good?" Watery blue eyes were fixed intently on the sliced mango. One was skewered with the letter opener and reverently consumed. The Post Captain leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes in bliss.

Very disturbing.

"Yes, sir. That was why I was late," James reminded him.

"Ah. Well. Don't do it again," Ramsey said vaguely.

"All right, sir."

Ramsey, despite appearances, was renowned for his perception – in strategy, diplomacy, and in this case, in others – picking out a midshipman's disappointment out of a modulated tone. And again, despite appearances, Post Captain Ramsey was also renowned for the paternal interest he took in his subordinates. One blue eye opened. "If you're sure it's a professional musician, Norrington, the priest at St Anne's is probably the man to ask. He's been trying to build a proper accompaniment to his choir for dog's years, now, probably knows the names of anyone who can pick up a fiddle without hurting themselves within Calcutta."

"Thank you, sir."

"Though… had a blackie with him, you say?" Ramsey mused, his bored mind delighting in the little puzzle, now that his interest was sparked. "But was walking out. Not a nob, then. But don't sound like a banian, dressed like that, more like a lascar. Maybe a clerk at the harbor."

"Didn't seem so, sir. From the attitude."

"Eh, well, remember to ask him the next time, boyo," Ramsey said dismissively, turning back to his mango. Knowing better than to pester the man further, James politely excused himself. The last person who had attempted (despite all warnings) to bother Post Captain Ramsey when the man was eating mangoes had to have stitches.

--

"Silk, I'm telling you, silk," Ramakrishna moaned. "Why more tea?"

"Call it intuition," Beckett said blithely, as they strolled from Fort William to their shared office near the harbor.

"The cut for silk is higher at the moment," Ramakrishna said, reproachfully.

"I think there's a better future in tea," Beckett said, as they stopped to let a noisy procession of servants, shouting out the titles of their master, then a state coach drawn by snorting bays, pass. Decadent gilt and velvet curtains – Beckett's lip twitched, his eyes half-lidding. "Oh, and if we get that price from Dhar, cut the profit margin, use our assets from the last venture. And market it to the masses. England, Manila. We could even try Bombay, as an experiment."

"What?" Ramakrishna peered into Beckett's face, mouth open. "I think the sun baked your brain, oh great and esteemed English sah."

"You'll see," Beckett said absently. He couldn't get that damned shy smile out of his head.

"I don't see," Ramakrishna went as far as to prod Beckett in the shoulder. "Selling for that margin is what we've always done. Good profit, yes? Now you want to buy in bulk and sell for lower?"

"Because I want to change our target consumers," Beckett said, batting the hand away irritably. "Because there are more commoners than there are members of the elite."

"They happen to be poorer, too," Ramakrishna said a little sullenly. "And I have a lot of capital invested in your enterprises, esteemed sah."

"I know," Beckett said, looking out over to where the Ganges curled in a flat, lazy blue strip in the distance towards the bustling harbor. Warships anchored further out broke up the horizon. "But the point, as you know, is not to be content with simply small profit."

"It's not to be ruined, either," Ramakrishna whined. "You want to be a rich man? So do I, sah. I think you smart, I be your banian. But you slowly going crazy, you know?"

"Call it ambition," Beckett arched an eyebrow at him. "Come now, when have I let you down?"

Ramakrishna muttered to himself in his native dialect for a moment – Beckett picked out the words 'chariya, chariya', then the lean shoulders squared under the yellowing shirt. "Ayyyy! Fine. But you pay for dinner."

--

Reverend Paul frowned at the midshipman before him and adjusted his monocle. "A violinist, you say? Of caliber? Possessing a Stradivarius? Performing Handel? My dear young man, I can assure you that it would have come under my notice, had someone with sufficient means to acquire a Strad, and possessing such musical aptitude as you describe, had come to Calcutta. Why are you looking for this man, anyway? Is he in some sort of trouble with the Navy?"

"No, nothing of the sort," the midshipman – Norrington, Paul recalled, a little vaguely – he wasn't particularly good with anyone who wasn't part of his regular flock, the choir, or a musician. "I was just curious."

"How did you know it was a Stradivarius?" the Reverend asked, then he brightened visibly. "Could it be that you yourself play the violin?"

"No," Norrington said quickly. "I don't play any instrument. My uncle, in London, is an enthusiast, however, and he is rather obsessed with violins."

"Oh." Bored, the Reverend shrugged, wandering across the narrow aisle between the wooden pews to a small desk against a wall, where he located spare paper, quill, and inkbottle in a drawer, and wrote down some names. "Here's the people in Calcutta who, to my knowledge, have some middling ability at the fiddle."

"Thank you, sir," the midshipman reached out his hand for it. The Reverend pulled the paper out of reach.

"Ah, ah. It's in exchange."

"For?"

"I don't have much free time," Reverend Paul said, "And certainly no time to go about ferreting out mysterious virtuosos in this melting pot. If you do find him, do your utmost to persuade him to come here for introductions."

"Of course." The midshipman took the paper, and paused, almost as though there was something else on his mind.

"Yes?"

"Um. Nothing. Thanks for your help, sir."

"Good day, young man."

--

Beckett was annoyed to see, at the end of one of Scarlatti's Exercizi, the tall man with the ramrod posture and the plain sword leaning against the wall in the enclave. He hadn't seen the man enter the area when he had started, and had rather hoped that he wouldn't come. As he stretched, he sent a death glare up into the boughs, but Ramakrishna was asleep. Whoever he was, the man looked as though he was still recovering from a run – his white shirt was soaked, and he was slightly out of breath. The man smiled shyly and waved when Beckett looked back at him, which made the musician snap his gaze away, sharply.

He took a deep breath, and began to play scales. His audience murmured, a little startled at the early conclusion, but lingered up until he had worked his way up to A major, at which point they left in disappointment. Beckett placed the violin and bow in the case, and looked up to the boughs, his voice sharp. "Ramakrishna. We're going." A snore. Irritably, Beckett looked around for any sort of small object with which to pelt his companion awake, and realized with a start that the tall man had walked up to him, looking apologetic.

"I'm sorry. I knew you said you… well, but the natives… but I wanted to listen. Came straight here from the office… thought I might miss the, um… recital." Beckett felt that the stammer was adorable, than inwardly kicked himself for thinking so. He looked at the tall man thoughtfully – he had to be in his early twenties, or so.

"Military, or Navy?" he asked.

"Navy, sir." The man blinked. "How did you…"

"Your posture, the sword, your manner of speech," Beckett said, dismissively. "Your hair, your shirt, your hands."

The man, as he expected, glanced down at his hands. Calluses from sword work and rope. "Oh. That's remarkable."

"Trivial." Flatly. "Don't come back next week."

A spark of ire in green eyes. Finally. "Why? But you let…"

"I have my reasons," Beckett said, lacing his words liberally with disdain. The man opened his mouth. "And I'm not interested in your name, nor am I giving mine to you." The mouth closed. "Good day."

"Let me buy you lunch," the man (a marine, then) offered, unperturbed. The shy smile was back.

Beckett growled, "Not interested," just as Ramakrishna slipped out of the tree with a whoop. "Free lunch!" He looked confused when Beckett glowered at him. "What?"

He was pointedly silent during a lunch of (what Ramakrishna had said was called) aloo paratha, while his companions chattered about the silk trade, the French incursions, and the religious significance of the Ganges. Ramakrishna, at least, had the good sense not to discuss any personal details, or indeed give any name outside of his own. They sat on unguarded grates on the outskirts of the bazaar – Beckett's prized possession on his lap, the coat folded over the case to shield it against potential instances of wayward gravy. Beckett bit almost viciously into the Indian bread, wrapped around flavored potato and onions, setting his eyes firmly on the cobbles.

When the marine finished, he glanced up at the sky. "Oh. I have to go."

"See you next week," Ramakrishna said cheerfully, "Especially if you buy lunch!"

Beckett bared his teeth, but waited until the marine had gone before muttering, "What the devil are you doing?"

"Hey, a free lunch is a free lunch, sah," Ramakrishna said innocently. "I wonder how big his budget is?"

"He's probably only a petty officer at most," Beckett said dismissively. "Too young, no confidence."

"Faced you down easy enough, sah," Ramakrishna grinned, flashing pearly white teeth. "I like him!"

"That's because he bought you lunch. You know why I'd rather not have any…"

"Don't look like he told anyone, did he?" A sly grin. "I say we take our free lunches, and when he does tell, I just be putting out notice that the performances be moving. No worry. Try to see if he can treat dinner too, eh?"

"Ramakrishna…"

"Until the next shipment arrives safely, I think we have a little cash flow problem," the Bengali merchant said, a little more quietly. "And, well, I must say I'm a little worried about your next idea. So…"

"A little bit goes a long way?" Beckett's lips quirked.

"Call it superstition," Ramakrishna winked. "But I think we should just take whatever luck may offer."

"You're reading a little too much into a free lunch."

"Eh, you know how it is with me, sah. Food is my religion. Maybe cricket."

"I buy you lunch. A lot."

"We're business partners, sah. Not counted by far."

--

After the third blank look from men in the list that Reverend Paul had provided, James decided he was definitely looking in the wrong place. The mystery violinist evidently disliked European company, at least when he was performing. That meant that he probably kept his ability a secret, at least from the European community, and likely only performed in places where there were few, if any, Europeans.

He located the mangoes-and-oranges seller in another corner of the bazaar, and this time bought the damned oranges without having to argue. "The violinist, what do you know about him?" he asked the gap-toothed man.

The man looked blank. "Vy-yin?"

Words occurred to James. "The one you said had… Saraswati's gift. White."

This time, the blank look seemed contrived.

James parted with some coin.

A bright smile. "Saraswati, gift! You want to see. To listen."

"Yes, yes. Who is he?"

"White… white man. Short. Hair… coffee, coffee hair."

"Yes, I know what he looks like," James said patiently. "I meant, do you know his name?"

"Saraswati, gift."

"Er. Right. Do you know where I can find him?"

"There, on fourth days," the man pointed at the alley. "Today second day. Third day, third day sun… sun down, Kalighat."

"Kalighat?"

The man beamed. "Kalighat Kaali. Temple. Hooghly. Ayyy! You find Saraswati's gift." A pause, then hopefully, "Bananas? You like bananas?"

--

"You don't have to go, you know, if the temple bothers you," Ramakrishna said mildly, after the fourth snappish reply at perfectly neutral topics of conversation.

Beckett sighed. "I… damn, I apologize. It's the temple. And the priests… er, the Sevayats."

"You just react to the presence of Kali," Ramakrishna shrugged. "You being who you are, of course, sah." He held up his hands quickly as Beckett glared at him. "Sorry, sorry. No mention of Saraswati. Right."

"I may be willing to go through this very odd compulsion of your people to regard me as being gifted by the divine, for business purposes," Beckett said irritably, "But I'd be damned if you have to start blathering to me about it."

"Yes, yes," Ramakrishna said anxiously, as they walked towards the Hooghly river. The residential area was thinning out into sacred ground, and the bald Bengali merchant was looking a little shifty. "Sorry."

For a temple that commanded this much reverence amongst the folk of Calcutta, it was really just a hut next to a river, accompanied by a few trees, and a courtyard of swept sand. Which was filled with natives of different castes, genders and ages, arranged into a semicircle by a few wrinkled men in white dhotis and sarongs. Beckett grimaced. "It's getting worse."

"Uh… yes, sah." Ramakrishna was looking remarkably shifty, even for the surroundings.

Beckett narrowed his eyes. "You didn't…"

He looked innocent. Too innocent. "Why, sah…"

"What did you do?" Irritably.

"I could have told some… friends, of mine… uh… and they told other friends… ayyy… don't kill me…"

Beckett paused in his attempts to strangle his business associate at the sight of a familiar tall frame, at the tree, partially hidden behind the press of dark bodies and dirty dhotis. Chocolate-hued hair ducked quickly as the marine realized he had been spotted. Beckett took in a deep breath.

"Sah… you can't just walk off," Ramakrishna said hurriedly, following Beckett's gaze and guessing his train of thought. "Ayyy… some of these merchants, coffee business…"

"They'd base my ability to do business on my musical aptitude?" Beckett arched an eyebrow skeptically.

"No… ehh… but someone favored by Saraswati… eheh… that's different… ayyyy… don't kill me…." Ramakrishna hid quickly behind one of the beaming, wrinkled men. Beckett sighed. The man had a point. Not one that he really wished to swallow, but…

He folded his coat on the rickety stool provided, and opened the case.