I won't sing of amore

It don't sound sincere

Love is a cliche

But it fits not here

I'll disappear

Beckett wasn't sure he could get used to having servants. Not to mention disturbingly reverential ones. It seemed that when Ramakrishna had put out notice of employment, there had been a mad rush of people who were very, very interested in serving the man with Saraswati's gift.

He was also certainly not very sure what to make of the ascetic white man with the reptilian eyes that the Sevayats at Kalighat had presented to him, saying that as he possessed Saraswati's gift, it was fitting that he was protected at all times by a follower of her aspect of destruction. Or so Ramakrishna had translated, when he wasn't busy being hysterical. For some reason, the white man – who had introduced himself, in an inflectionless voice, as "Mister Mercer", scared the hell out of the merchant. The man hardly ever spoke, he did whatever Beckett asked him to without complaint or comment (be it fetching letters, tea, or, out of curiosity, spying on certain members of the British elite in Calcutta).

"What is he?" he finally asked Ramakrishna, when he had sent Mercer out to obtain something suitably obscure (strawberries in Calcutta… hah!).

The man whimpered, looking around shiftily. "Eheh. Ayyy, you might want to ask that less loudly, sah."

"Trouble?"

"Eheh… not really…"

"Not really?"

"Trouble to anyone who might be trouble to you, yes… eheh…"

"Ramakrishna…"

"Have you heard of tuggee, sah?" Ramakrishna's shoulders slumped.

"Only very lurid accounts back in England," Beckett said dryly, "Which were fed to anybody about to migrate to India." He blinked. "I thought… but Mister Mercer isn't Indian."

"Eheh… well you know… there are three ways to become tuggee, and only one of them sort of, you know, involves you being Indian… can we drop this topic… ayyy…"

"They're assigning me an assassin as a bodyguard?" Beckett said, aghast.

"Not just any assassin… eheh…"

"What do you mean?"

"… ayyyyy… don't kill me…"

"Ramakrishna…!"

"I see his coin when he show you… I notice you don't understand… he not just tuggee, sah… he jemadar… leader of a group… please don't tell him I tell you… I don't want to die before I get married… ayyyy…"

Beckett blinked. "Why send someone like that?" And he had told this… jemadar… to go to the bazaar and look for strawberries. Good Lord.

"Affiliated with Saraswati… you will have enemies… eh…" Ramakrishna looked a little apologetic. "Tuggee be servants of Kali… she speak to them through omens, a lot of ritual… perhaps she speak to him, tell him to protect you."

"Enemies?"

"Those who think it's, well, blasphemous, since you be white man… or those who are Saraswati's enemies… ayyy… many. And white men, in Calcutta. We rise fast, maybe. Rich quick. That makes enemies."

"But this… this moniker is only that – a damned nickname! I don't feel touched by the Divine!"
"The Brahmin accept you as so… eh… Kalighat recitals… if Brahmin accept you then… eh… I am Vaishya, eh…"

Beckett sighed. "This is getting out of hand."

He didn't blink, when Mercer returned with strawberries.

--

James smiled faintly, wryly, when he saw Christian at the docks. He moved away from overseeing the men load up his luggage, and approached him. The violinist looked out of sorts – breathless, sweating, and disheveled. The glare, however, was still steely. "You didn't tell me."

James nodded.

Christian lowered his head, and exhaled. "When does the ship leave?"

"Few hours."

"Come."

James found himself dragged down some streets and into what looked like another adda house. They sat at a table, and coffee was ordered. Christian's glare returned. "Explain." Tight anger.

"I've been promoted to Lieutenant."

"I can see that from your clothes."

"There's an opportunity in Jamaica, once I settle some affairs in London. Possibilities of a quick promotion in the future, perhaps even to Commodore. Faster than here."

"You're not explaining."

James sighed, and picked at the braid on a bucket cuff. "Christian. You said – those without power, have no freedom to do what they want."

Dark eyes flickered. "And you're leaving, to seek that power."

"Yes."

A bark of harsh laughter. "You'll never have power. Not that sort of power. You're in the Navy."

"We'll see," James said, evenly.

"You're a fool." Christian whispered, and raked fingers angrily through his hair.

"An impatient one," James agreed.

"How long?"

"As long as it takes."

A choked laugh. "Somewhere in between, a man like you. You'll love someone else."

"Christian. If you tell me not to go, I won't." James said, quietly. "But I will want something in return that you can't seem to give. You can't even give me your name."

The violinist sighed. He nodded at the serving boy, when coffee arrived. "Can't you wait? Just a few years more."

"It's been half a year and I'm dying, Christian. Seeing you nearly every day, but not being able to…" An exhalation. "I can't handle a few years. And if I stay, I can't help but see you. Listen to your music. It's killing me."

"I see." Christian murmured. He reached into a pocket in his breeches, and drew out something silver. Clapped it on the table before James. A plain cross, on a chain. "It was my sister's. Someday I'll want that back."

James smiled, and picked it up.

--

The gamble in England paid off. Beckett found out about it when Ramakrishna burst into his office in Fort William with a wild whoop and embraced him tightly.

When the man calmed down, Beckett asked, dryly, "So, how many children are you naming after me?"

Ramakrishna laughed. "Ayyy, maybe all of the girls!"

The years had been kind to the banian. The dhoti and sarong may be plain, but were of finest weave, and he was beginning to develop a paunch. He could also no longer scale the tree at the bazaar without some difficulty. Beckett found he liked expensive clothes, and fine wine, and had begun to collect a stable.

With the ludicrous profit, he could probably start purchasing breeds from Araby…

Then he would settle business to his satisfaction in Calcutta, invest in some other parts of the world, and then go to London, and begin the process of searching out the location of a Lieutenant with gorgeous green eyes.

Politics in Calcutta had changed him. He found himself colder, more ruthless. Ramakrishna was useless in that regard, in the building of power in the white man's arena. Mercer, however, was something else altogether. Beckett had already found use for his more specialized ability several times. He had silently made an anonymous donation to Kalighat.

"Hey? Anyone in?" Ramakrishna was waving a brown hand over his eyes. "Didn't faint, did you?"

"It's a shock," Beckett said, mildly.

"Eh, eh… that it is. Come. We go lunch."

"I'm due to play."

"After that, then. My treat."

"Really? I have to be dreaming, then."

--

Beckett was speaking to the handler in his stables about the best way to gain the trust of the bad tempered, skittish white colt when he spotted Ramakrishna waving at him from the outside. He excused himself, and walked out into the fresh air. "What?"

"Friendly as always," Ramakrishna grinned. He had the glow of an expectant father. The second wife was a renowned beauty, though, and he was still trying for a girl (to Beckett's amusement). He waved a piece of paper under Beckett's nose. "Guess who made Commodore, in Jamaica."

Beckett snatched the paper from him, looked at the name, then looked up at him with narrowed eyes. "How did you…"

"I'm not stupid, sah," Ramakrishna said dryly. "You haven't looked at any woman since. Or man. So I did a few inquiries, you know… eheh… since I don't know what to get you for your birthday this year… but I thought you might like to have this early. It was a little difficult to find someone without having his name, but I had a few lucky breaks."

"Oh." Beckett felt speechless. "Thank you."

Ramakrishna clapped him on the shoulder, and laughed heartily. "Don't need to look like that, hey! You change my life. And when you leave… eheh… you can trust me to keep the business doing good, on this end. Your horses, too. Write you letters."

"What makes you think I'm leaving?" Beckett's lip quirked.

"Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but I think you leave sometime," Ramakrishna winked, and clapped him on the shoulder again. "Ah, the springtime of love… ayyy… don't kill me…"

--

James, it seemed, was capable of the oddest indiscretions.

Beckett led Caesar, now an adult stallion, his mean temper tamed into a haughty spirit, onto the H.M.S. Cormorant, headed for Jamaica from Southampton, the papers in his embroidered coat seeming to burn through the wool. Correcting those indiscretions was going to take some genius.

And it seemed it was entirely possible he could also fully repay the person who had robbed from the last ship of cinnamon and coffee bound for Cathay what he was due.

--

James was filthy, and he had changed. The meekness was gone, as was the open smile – his expression was guarded, now, and he slouched. More lines across the forehead, and likely more scars, not all of which could be seen. The tattered blue coat made a further mockery of the man, but his arms were folded, and he wore a smirk that Beckett wasn't used to seeing.

Thankfully, he had the good sense to act as though they had never met before. Which was true, in a sense. James had known Christian, the poor violinist-merchant. Beckett had known James, the marine with the shy smile. James likely didn't recognize Lord Cutler Beckett, in his fine clothes and the now habitually cold sneer – Beckett didn't recognize James Norrington, ex-Commodore, pirate by necessity.

Beckett motioned to Mercer, who nodded and ushered marines and other hangers-on out of the office, closing the door behind him. His eyes fell to the rather disgusting, pulsing bag on the desk, and grimaced slightly. It would probably leave a stain. When he looked back up at James, however, it was with a faint smirk, and an arched eyebrow. Well?

James exhaled, and stood a little straighter. He reached into his coat, and took out a slightly battered looking but still recognizable silver cross, which he placed on the table. When Beckett made no move to reclaim his property, he chuckled, picked it up again, and this time, put it around his neck. As he navigated the catch, he asked, softly, "Do you still play Handel, Christian?"

Beckett smiled. "I don't appreciate audiences."

-fin-

Notes:

Adda: Informal discussion – adda culture was long discussions over food, said to have originated in Kolkata (Calcutta), but has been argued to have been traced back to Plato in Ancient Greece.

Banian: "In 18th century Bengal, a banian was an independent trader who came forward to help servants of the Company when they first arrived in Calcutta. All servants of the Company engaged in private trade and the banian became his partner and sometimes even advanced capital to start the enterprise. But apart from that he also provided various other services: acting as an interpreter, finding a house, servants and even procuring a sleeping dictionary (a wonderful euphemism for a native mistress)."

Castes: Mentioned in the fic: Brahmin (religion… learning… er, it's hard to describe), Vaishya (merchants, landowners).

Chal chal: Come on

Chapter: Spelled Chapterr above to reduce confusion – meaning 'strange, foolish, naïve'.

Chariya: Insanity

Kalighat: Kalighat temple's current form was built in the 1800s – it was previously a hut by the river. One of 51 temples where it is said that parts of the Goddess Devi fell onto Earth – Kalighat temple is the site of the big toe. Kali is the Goddess' aspect of destruction.

Saraswati: The Goddess Devi's aspect of music and the arts, among other things.

Stradivarius: A Stradivarius is a stringed instrument (famously, a violin) crafted by any member of the Stradivari family, especially Antonio Stradivari, highly prized by musicians, and of late, only affordable by banks. They have a unique sound, the secret of which is still a subject of ongoing debate. If you're really curious, youtube has an interesting documentary on the subject, as well as a recording of yo-yo-ma's work on a Stradivarius cello.