Disclaimer: I still don't own anything from Pirates, unless it's a character I created (like Helen). But everything else belongs to Disney.

Author's Note: Thank you for your continuing kind words and constructive criticism! It's all very much appreciated, even if I don't get a chance to thank everyone individually.
The storylines intertwine! This chapter is a bit shorter than the average only because it's really the first part of a much larger chapter (the second part will be Chapter Eleven).

Chapter Ten

Lord Beckett had been feeling very poorly recently, and he decided that he would blame his ill health on the cook, if he could be called a cook. He had spoken to the man once, after a full day's worth of stomach cramps and worse, and he had grinned toothily at him and said that he was a butcher. Now lying stiffly in bed, tensing whenever something inside him prickled, he made a note to himself to do something about the man as soon as they reached port.

There was a quiet knock at his door. He turned his head, saw the tall outline in the glass, and said loudly, "What do you want, James?" Norrington hesitated a moment, then opened the door and peeked his head in. Bloody tall bastard– His stomach cramped again, and he glared at Norrington with the dislike only those in agony can feel.

"We've sighted land, sir."

"Thank God," Beckett said with feeling. He swung his legs over the side of his bed and tested his weight on his feet. A brief dizzy spell hit him, and he had to sit back down and pretend as though that was his intention. "How much longer, would you say?"

Norrington walked over to the windows and stared out at the flat expanse of sea they were quickly leaving behind. "I would say only a few hours. It's hard to tell with such a variable wind, but we should at least be on land by sundown, barring any unforeseeable events."

"That is good news." Beckett stood now and shuffled over to his coat hanging off the back of his chair. James didn't move. "Is there any reason that you're still here?" His mood wasn't improved by the fact that he seemed to be the only one on board that was having as bad a time as he was.

"The Heart– that's where we're going, right? To retrieve it?"

"Of course."

Again James hesitated before taking leave. "You've hid it far away, then."

Beckett said again, "Of course. Now, if you will excuse me– I have a pile of papers that I must look to before we land."

James bowed, but Beckett couldn't help but catch the look that he gave him before he averted his eyes to the floor. He walked out and shut the door behind him.

Beckett went to lie down in his bed again. He decided that Norrington didn't know, but that he might suspect. It would become a problem if he somehow found out. He would make sure that Mercer kept a close eye on the ladder down to the hold. Realistically, he didn't want to get rid of someone that could be so useful to his plan, and he would do anything to avoid such an unfortunate event.

Norrington stood at the bow of the HMS Endeavour, leaning against the railing. Growing rapidly over the previously endlessly flat line of the ocean, he could see the gentle contours of low mountains and rounded hills and wide beaches.

Beckett had insisted that they travel to Nassau, presumably to recover the Heart. But why Beckett, whom Norrington had always considered cunning enough for his purposes– why Beckett would want to hide such a valuable item in Nassau of all places, Norrington dared not openly question.

"Admiral, sir."

Norrington turned. "Yes, what is it?"

"We should arrive in port in less than two hours."

"Good." He turned back to watching the small island grow and lengthen.

"Sir, should I tell his Lordship?"

Norrington smiled briefly down at his hands. "No, I don't think Lord Beckett wants to be disturbed at the moment."

They docked before noon. Lord Beckett looked paler and fouler than ever before, and he refused frequent offers of help while walking down the plank to the dock. He stood there waiting as Norrington saw to it that the captain handled the rest of the details that needed to be dealt with before he could get some rest. Norrington glanced over the railing once and saw Beckett leaning on his cane, doing his best to stand up straight and not curl in on the discomfort. One hand was always gripping his stomach.

When Norrington was satisfied that the captain would do nothing that might otherwise damage the ship, he joined Beckett – who was now sitting on some crates – on the dockside. "Would you like to find a room, sir? Perhaps rest a bit before going out to get the Heart?"

Beckett ground his teeth. "Yes." He used his cane to pull himself up and started off immediately at a slow, halting pace. Norrington had to significantly shorten and slow his strides. "I am going to kill that bastard cook," he groaned.

Their walk was slow up the light slope of the street and into the heart of the town. Norrington strolled with forced leisure, trying to ignore all the strange looks that Beckett was getting from passers-by. He glanced quickly down at the lord: his face was drawn into a grotesque scowl that likely accounted for the wide berth most people were giving them.

Beckett turned at the first respectable inn that he saw and walked in with deliberate determination. When the innkeeper took too long in attending to them, he walked behind the counter, grabbed a key, and stalked off down the hallway. Before out of earshot, he muttered to Norrington, "Pay for me and buy a room for yourself." He started away, but paused a moment and added, "And bring me some food. Something healthy and solid. Some wine."

The innkeeper saw him. "Hey! You there! Have you paid? Stop, I tell you!"

Norrington intervened. "Sir." He grabbed onto the man's shoulder and turned him around. "I'm supposed to pay for his Lordship's room."

The man's anger disappeared quickly, replaced by sickening servility. "Oh," he said and bowed, "oh, I'm so sorry, sir– Admiral, sir. His Lordship, you say, sir? Well, of course, that's fine. Follow me, if you will, sir."

Norrington gave him enough money for two rooms. With his key in his hand, he asked, "Is there anywhere where I can get quality food?"

The innkeeper was closely examining his coins and bit the corner of one, before he stopped himself in shame. "I don't mean to insult you, sir, but I must–"

James waved his hand dismissively. "Yes, yes, go ahead. But the food. Where can I find food?"

"Oh! There's a tavern a few doors down. They bake their own bread, and we buy our wine from them sometimes. Sir."

"Thank you." It was fairly obvious as soon as he was on the streetwhich tavern the man had been referring to. The smell of yeast and flour and rising dough pervaded the surroundings in a wholly pleasant way. He opened the door to the loud and raucous shouts of a group of sailors in the back corner. The moment they saw him, however, dressed in his finest uniform, they all fell silent and leaned guiltily over their cups and plates. The advantages of being a man of status; but he was in no mood to lecture them, so he ignored them.

The barkeep inched down the bar to him nervously. "What can I get for you, sir?"

"Some bread and wine. And do you have any specialties?"

"No, sir. But our cook makes tasty roasted chicken."

"Then I'll have some of that, as well." The man bowed hesitantly and rushed back to the kitchen to shout the orders.

While he waited, Norrington sat on a tall barstool. The group in the corner was still quiet, and they were sneaking glances over at him in a way that made his Navy-trained senses nervous. He turned his head as much to the side as he dared, enough to examine some of the faces on the farther end of the table. One of them looked surprisingly familiar, but he decided that that wasn't at all unusual, since many sailors traveled extensively around the Caribbean, and Nassau was a common port to stop at.

But there was one, one of the men with his back towards the door. There was something very familiar with the way he sat and the way he moved. Norrington couldn't place it.

The barkeep placed a paper bundle of all his bread and wine bottle on the counter in front of him, the loosely packaged roasted chicken beside it. Norrington paid him and walked down the street with full arms back to Beckett's room.

After dinner, Beckett was apparently feeling well enough, because he asked for Norrington to go out and find their cook. When he inquired as to the reason, Beckett simply smiled and took another sip of wine.

Now Norrington was sitting in the common area of the inn, eating his own dinner – Beckett had graciously thanked Norrington for his trouble and proceeded to force him out of the room without even a bite. The cook exited Beckett's room and walked down the hall looking rather disappointed, and slipped out to the street without saying a word to Norrington.

Beckett appeared soon after, dressed once again in a coat of fine, stiff brocade. "Come, Norrington," he said, banging his cane impatiently on the floor. He didn't pause long at Norrington's table.

"Sir? I haven't finished my–" The door slammed shut behind him, and James looked down at his half-finished meal. Then he sighed; whatever it was, it had to be important for Beckett to drag himself out of his sick bed so soon upon arriving. They were to stay in Nassau for at least a week, so he ruled out the Heart as being the reason. Beckett was prudent enough to know to keep it hidden as long as he could. He pushed on his hat and ran out the door to catch up to him. "Where are we going?" he asked wearily.

"To get the Heart."

Norrington's pace quickened unconsciously. "You're willing to risk it being stolen?"

Beckett said nothing.

They rounded a corner and took the road that sloped down to the harbor. It was nearly dark now, but Norrington could see the white sails of so many ships in harbor. He saw the HMS Endeavour moored very close to the center of the long dock.

Helen.

Norrington stopped mid-step. Where had that thought come from? His hand instinctively drifted to the wound on his chest. It must have twinged, he decided, and that was what had reminded him of her. He hadn't actually consciously thought of her for–

Norrington grabbed Beckett's arm and forcefully dragged him into a small alley.

Beckett tried to struggled out of his grasp, shouting, "Norrington, get the hell off–"

But Norrington clamped his hand over his mouth. "Quiet, and I'll let you go. But you have to be quiet."

Beckett forced his hand off, but said not a word. He followed Norrington's gaze.

A girl, looking distractedly at something in her hand, was walking up the street towards them. She hadn't seemed to notice the struggle.

Without taking his eyes from her, Norrington found his pistol tucked in his belt and half-cocked it.